The Interruptor

There are all kinds of interruptions in life. In my house, the heat from the fan heater is most often interrupted (read "hogged") by this cat, who plants herself in the prime position.
In my writing life this week, it has been paint. Specifically, having the hallway and doors painted. It's great that I don't have to do it, but the house smells very strongly of paint, to the point where I feel like I've been drinking it! And the painter has been around so it's been hard to focus on the novel (not that I need any excuse to procrastinate!).
Then yesterday morning, I woke at 5am with the first three lines of a short story in my head. They wouldn't go away. Every time I woke up, they were still there. Finally I got up and wrote them down, and kept writing. Three pages later, I had the start of a story that came from nowhere. I don't even think I was dreaming about it.
My other aim while on leave - apart from writing - was to continue cleaning out my office and getting rid of stuff. This means moving a large number of books out to a new bookcase. But the new bookcase has not arrived at the shop. So I am dodging piles of books and archive boxes and trying not to touch wet paint.
It's about now that I'm wondering why I didn't book for two weeks in Vanuatu or something. Because, in order to help the paint to dry, we have all the doors and windows open, and it's about 12 degrees. Maybe if I imagine myself lying on the beach in the sunshine with a great book to read, I'll feel warmer. There's certainly no point trying to get close to the heater...