Working means what?

Work
I am wondering about what project to set myself. At the moment, my eyes are resting upon pretty utility and my brain is baking philosophies about travel and tourism. I will be taking more photographs, but of what? Maybe I should not instill the limits until a pattern emerges in them. I will carry on writing into my small, black notebook and try to fill it before I haul my whole to the tarmac of the continent.

Do thoughts & memories make stories?
I was convinced that someone had appeared in my bedroom last night and stolen my mobile phone. I looked in all the normal places, as well as under the bed and amongst the piles of paper and plastic that decorate my carpet. I was ready to run out of the house this morning, having locked the door to my room, when I thought that I heard a door close upstairs, mine, and sprinted silently up the stairs to listen acutely.

I unlocked the door and prepared, as much as you can, for a baseball bat to fall around onto my eyes. Jaw pressing my teeth into my sinus, in I pushed. Nobody but me. I eventually found the poor handset in bits down the side of the bed, one metre from where I had left it. I remembered then that I was supposed to get to University before everyone else to collect my digital camera. I had left it in the studio, not at the centre, but it only takes one curious head to discover something worth several Amazon stars. I have it now and will insure it today for my time in France, and maybe for my time in Manchester afterwards.

Now
I am going to town. I will buy a pot of 'tea from heaven' at Piccadilly Gardens' Manna Café and add to my little book. I may or may not come to any conclusions about conceptual construction. I would rather do things to feel bargain-smug and unique in the afternoon between the grey-shaved business faces. Goodbye, ouija board.