I just stopped myself from work at the end of the podcast I was listening to (another escapepod.org one - I'm getting very used to them now) to go and muck out the garden. I can't think of any other word for it, it definitely didn't feel like gardening. Think potted balcony garden abandoned for several months due to lack of access in the rainiest part of the year. Pots of mushroomy rotten sludge held together by dead roots.
It's definitely a good idea to do some physical work between colouring sessions, I just wonder how other people seem to manage to do nice un-sludgy whistle while you work type domestic chores that probably smell good, too. It's probably because they don't let matters liquefy before they tend to them.
I'd like to do something pleasantly domestic tonight, but can't think of anything except making pickles - baking a cake would be the classic choice but I don't really like cake. And lately I can't be bothered to knit or crochet neither, because I need my hands to draw and write with - getting RSI from making a sock when I have a book deadline would be idiotic.
Pickles... say, why don't I just eat some pickles and then do some writing. They sell pickles in the shop. When did I turn into my own Stepford Wife anyway? I'll make pickles when I feel inspired to pickle. Enough domesticity already!
Phew. Freelance Sundays, eh?