How do people find the time to write diaries?

So how do people find the time to write diaries? Take Pepys for instance, pages and pages while London burned. He was obviously focussed. This my key word, the thing that is lacking in my life, has, i suspect been lacking my entire life. I am not focussed, I am 'distrait' by nature. A human scatter cushion. Now le Comte (or is that Comet?) has come in. He will point out that I have lit the boiler but not followed it up by putting wood on top of the kindling. The result is quite simply wasted kindling. City dwellers simply cannot imagine the value of dry kindling. Picture us (le comte and I, of course, not the teenage princesses) trolling up the mountain, probably in six inches of snow, with one of those twig bundles on our backs and a look of pure misery on our faces. Scene from a Victorian Melodrama take 2. That is what kindling means.
But I worried unnecessarily le Comte returned from his beer hunt in time to rescue the boiler so heat will ensue. And I may cook soup on it.
On a lighter note le Beaujolais nouveau est arrivee. A cause for celebration throughout France. Our wine man has given me a bottle gratuit since I am such good customer - this is due to our summer guests, I hasten to add, not the consumption of le Comte and I alone. Summer guests...even a Chatelaine must make a living, so the obviously solution is to fill the Chateau with paying guests/happy holiday makers.
Today I spent the morning raking. You may not have realised that raking is an integral part of a Chatelaine's job description, but it is. The princesses aren't very keen on raking and le Comte is always busy with very important building works - currently he's planting balustrade about the place - so the designated raker is the chatelaine. There are a lot of leaves in six acres and you will be interested to learn that they are of several main varieties: sweet chestnut (long and almond shaped), plane (large like damp flannels), lime (piddly) and acacia (often still stubbornly on stalks) and at the moment they are all sopping wet and completely unburnable. So I have piled them in sodden piles against a wall where either they, or possibly I, will break down.
This afternoon I went to complete the francification (this is a genuine french word and they say it with a straight face) of our Spanish-bought car at the Sous-Prefecture (which is a glorified Mairie). Except - not only was the office closed today, it was closed for ever. As from October 15th. That was a first. It's normally just the wrong day/hour/colour/saint/holiday/too close to Christmas... But today, as I had every possible piece of identification/tax form/birth certificate/electric bill... with me and couldn't possibly be required to return home for more, they had simply shut the place. Such is the law of doing everything twice. You can't beat it and it was wrong of me to try.
After that I collected Princess 1 from the dentist and she drove home. She is getting better, thank goodness, no thanks to the driving school. Driving lessons in France are the usual attempt at over-regulation resulting in expensive sloppiness. I'll explain how tomorrow. It's time now to open the Beaujolais...