In which I realise I may have a problem

Well, several problems, maybe; but I'm thinking about one particular one here.

This problem doesn't have brown eyes (down, Cryptic, there's a good hound!) and it doesn't live in the upstairs flat and play the sodding piano at one a.m - although the problem who does do that is certainly still a problem I have. 

It has a screen and a keyboard connected to it; but it isn't the ticketing system at work (which is behaving quite well for me at the moment, hurrah!).

Some time on Bank Holiday Monday morning the internet connection here in the flat crashed.  It remained crashed for around 60 hours, which time included two whole evenings. 

During those two evenings I wrote approximately 6,500 words. 

Since I had spend most of Monday during the day either baking or lounging under a tree at Kew Gardens with my dear Dip and talking of many things (including, if not cabbages and kings, at least chocolate and graphic novels and the potential usefulness of being able to turn oneself into a chair as a fighting method), I didn't write anything until the evening anyway.  And yesterday was a work day, and a fairly hectic one at that, so again, no writing till the evening. 

I did a lot of writing in those two evenings, then.  Without this thing to distract me.

So that is my problem; I think I have a bit of an internet addiction.  Gosh, how very modern of me.  But also, oh shit. 

Monday was lovely, though; so good to catch up properly with Dippiest Dip the Dipterist, so good to roll in the grass chilling out, so good to eat too much.  And the chocolate and raspberry buns were rather splendid, though I say it myself.