I can't work today. I've got to go to the dentist. Plus I've got a hangover.
Yesterday I couldn't work because I was going up to London in the evening, and yes, that does take an entire day to prepare for. (Mentally, I mean. I wouldn't like you to think that I spend hours trying to look the way I do...)
Monday I also had a hangover. This is most unusual for me.
Sunday I couldn't work because I had a friend coming to tea. I suppose I could've worked after she left, but she left at half past eight or so, and by that time we'd shared a bottle of Veuve Cliquot (she's just got divorced) and I wasn't really in a fit state to try to type. Hence the hangover.
Saturday I couldn't work because - well, it was Saturday.
I don't even want to think about the last time I sat down and really did a good day's work. Possibly it was on my proofs, a few weeks ago - but then doing proofs, while hard work, isn't exactly creative. Or hopefully not too creative, anyway. And given that the novel I'm (in theory) working on at the moment has never had a decent day's work put into it, ever (it's about 5,000 words long, out of a projected 100,000, to which I can only say: Ha!), that must mean it was the novel before, which makes it... at least a couple of months.
Do you ever look back at your life and ask yourself what you're doing with it?
(Research, the answer comes back, in a sepulchral voice. Research.)