encouraging parents

The week before I left for Melbourne my supervisor had asked me to stay at home to write, and I was more than happy to oblige. Our office isn't exactly the best place to produce good, solid work. All too often I'd be sitting at my desk, happily playing tetris with my thoughts when somebody would suddenly jab me back into the office by yelling out "Gene! Are you still working on that paper?!", or "Gene! Help me move these flower pots!", or "Gene! Would you like to eat some of this gelatinous rice pudding!". So for the week, I locked myself away in my room. I drew up figures, I played around with data in my head, I wrote. When it all got a bit too overheated I'd sit and stare out the window, or I'd play around on the guitar. It was a great week.

During this time, when I was out somewhere or other, my parents apparently sat my sister down at the dinner table for a serious chat. "Gene doesn't seem quite right", they said, "and all we hear from his room are the same things being played over and over again on the guitar. Is he on drugs?"

My guitar playing must really suck.