All of my work-based focus for the past nine weeks has been on preparation for Miniatura, which is now less than two weeks away.
So almost three months in total.
That's a quarter of a year.
Funny how 11 weeks sounds like no time at all, while quarter of a year sounds like a l-0-n-g time.
Anyhoo, as I sit here, waiting for the printer to churn out 20 sheets of paper (it's having a bad cartridge day so I may be here for some time.....) my thoughts turn to the post-Miniatura epoch.
Is there life after Miniatura..........?
That's the trouble with being focused on one point in time. Everything else pales into insignificance. All the work and worry and pressure will be miraculously lifted, and in the days following the show I will either be basking in the warm, fuzzy feeling of success, or traumatised by having sold not a single item over the whole weekend.
Ok, so I exaggerate for dramatic effect.........the reality will be somewhere between the two, but the question remains.
What happens after?
My initial feeling is one of bewilderment and panic. A gaping hole of nothingness?
Thankfully my pragmatic side quickly surfaces (probably through the hole of nothingness) and asserts itself.
Even the briefest glance through my 'Ideas' notebook reveals several month's worth of 'research and development'.
Then there is my new online shop on miniature.net which has been languishing since January, and which needs to be resurrected and completed. The template is all in place, and I've put in the basics, but there is still a lot to be done.
Both of these tasks are relatively pleasurable, containing as they do, scope for experimentation and creativity.
However, looming into view on the horizon is the end of the UK tax year, and the dreaded prospect of having to do the accounts. A prospect which I never relish and does nothing for my already fragile equilibrium.
But I can't worry about that now. My worry list is full and I can't start a new one.
So back to work........I can hear that the printer has finished and is rearranging and shuffling its cartridges in its usual martyred way as if it is grinding its teeth.