I almost gave up again. Writing this, I mean. Not because I'm a quitter (although sometimes I have to admit that I am that), and not because I can't make the time to do it (although that, too, is a problem now that I'm working three jobs). It's the irony of life for most of us, I suppose: when not working, you have all the time to do the things you want to do, but no money with which to do them; when working, you have the money to do all the things, but not the time. I find myself juggling. Yes, the bank manager is a much happier chappie now than before, but I am in a quandry. I like the financial security of working for someone else, but I like the freedom of working for myself. Now I'm doing both - freelancing during the day and working on the paper in the evenings, the net outcome is that my free time is precious and brief. Yet, despite all of my proclamations that I would use my time wisely, and fill my days productively, I find that I like nothing better to do when not working than to do nothing. And that brings me to this: this isn't nothing, this is something, and it is something that I have to force myself to do, just as I have to force myself to do so many other things (read a book, take a photograph, write a journal, finish writing my book, start writing my book, etc., etc.). Still, I did something productive today: I paid my credit card bill and made an appointment with the bank to see about buying a house in Portugal.