Last night I went speed networking. Two events in as many days. Torture. I think my spirit of adventure may finally have been exorcised. One woman there spent her entire time sizing up the men. She tried her charms on the organiser - a man with 'married' tatooed across his deameanour. Having failed, she said loudly: "There's no point talking with you. You don't fancy me." "You don't have to fancy someone to shag them" he replied. I laughed fit to burst. Indeed, my mate and I'd been hysterical all evening. We'd each had 90 seconds for the elevator pitch. 90 seconds x 12 people. Living death. I talked everything but business. And decided that I'm opting out. There's no point pretending. I have a problem. I love spending. But hate earning. Where is the middle ground, here? Since 8am, I've been writing a report on Tuesday's meeting. I started it yesterday. A new press strategy, centres of excellence, changing emphasis midstream... I am blinded by my own science. It isn't even due till next week! Whereas the first chapter of the book I'm writing is due on Tuesday. And we're away all weekend. And I've not writ a word. Or ghostwrit, as the case is. Ooer, we're back to exorcism. What a shame one can't turn ectoplasm into gold:-o