You can do anything you want in children's fiction. Even wrestle an elephant. Preferably, a playful one with climbable tusks and a soft grandfatherly trunk to tip you upside down and set you back on the ground with the gentlest nudge.
But today, writing has been like grappling the wrong end of a leathery and ill-tempered beast. I have been whipped by its bristly tail for most of the day whilst my head has been squashed between a pair of huge knees. My toes have been trampled by monstrous feet.
Words, when I can get them out from between my crushed teeth, have mostly been ouch and look where you're going and quite often where are we going? The elephant is feeding at random ahead of me, while I wrestle its hindquarters.
All I need is a mouse of an idea to set me free.
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