I am not driving to and from Northumbria (when I am a passenger the time is reserved form reading; unless it is dark in which case I am assisting driving); I am not in the garden due to a cold, bitterly cold wind; nor am I writing up minutes or writing letters but still I am not writing stories.
I did write in my journal and I have been reading a gripping fantasy by Tanya Huff and I perused the papers and I cooked lunch for our visitors. And now it is essential that I watch the rugby. Thus it is that another day whizzes past and I have not transformed my notes and journal jottings into a cultivated, polished piece of prose or poetry.
Tomorrow …..