I have one left.

Just one.

One tiny little essay to write and then I am officially 2/3 of the way through my degree.

This needs to be written, and marked, by the end of the month.

It's the 19th today.

No problem, right? I can whip up 3000 words in a day, no problem. I'll probably get a first (still nothing under 72% this year, although I've not yet received a mark for Jake's exam, which I shall be looking at with my eyes screwed shut). It's all fine, right?

Erm. Sort of. Well, if we ignore the chronic writer's block, and the fact that it can sometimes take me weeks to write a single sentence, and there's no way of predicting when said affliction will strike, if we ignore all that, in a word, I'm f****d.

I'm currently at work, I leave here at 4.15 and go spend a couple of hours with The Foghorn. After much strenuous lifting out of wheelchair, onto commode, in the shower, bend and stretch to wash, fight over hair, fight over towels, lift onto bed, more bending and stretching to get dressed, lift back into wheelchair, then from wheelchair to armchair, then tidy up all the mess, prepare dinner, spoon dinner into Foghorn's mouth, and all the while singing and gabbling in an excitable and entertaining manner, because it makes her smile. Once that's done I can barely drive home. I shall open my books and stare at them in a manner of incomprehension/bewilderment, then collapse into an exhausted heap.

I love my sister more than anyone else on earth. I do. I would not give up my precious time with her for all the tea in China (or something I actually want, like a first-class degree). But sometimes I want to cry. I should point out that I'm small and kind of skinny, and whilst she's not exactly weighty herself (being genetically somewhat similar), I'm still basically lifting more than 3/4 of my own bodyweight. No wonder I have biceps like the Himalayas.

Anyhow, I digress. It's nearly time to leave my desk. This essay will get written, somehow, because it must. It just has to. I just have to.