Years ago, I found that I lost my blogging voice if I left it for a week or more, so decided to post every day, as a self-discipline thing. It got a bit out of hand, to be frank. I remember, a couple of times, getting into bed and realising I hadn’t written anything, so tapping out something (probably incoherent) on my phone, to get a post done before midnight. So eventually, I decided that the self-discipline should revert to not writing every day. And now it’s so random that the blog isn’t my little island of stability any more. So maybe I need another phase.
I’ve got a small pile of post to deal with, that’s randomly on the armchair that I sit on least. I’m really not being my best Z at present. But getting to grips with that is on the schedule for Sunday. I have opened the post from my accountant, because I could see from the bulk that it’s my tax returns. There is absolutely zero likelihood that I will ever fill in my own tax returns. I probably could, but I see no need to.
It’s been an expensive week, because I paid the insurance on Tim’s caravan and also the deposit for next year’s rent payment, which has gone up rather startlingly. I don’t want to give up the caravan as yet, so I’ve just paid it. I like it there. I’m always sad because I miss Tim so much, the place feels full of him, yet there’s a degree of comfort in that too. I don’t need to explain it to myself.
I caught up with an old friend today, when I was invited to his birthday party. He’s a fortnight younger than I am, so I pull rank relentlessly. He says he still follows this blog, so *waves to Shawn* and I hope it won’t be another 7 or 8 years before we catch up again. Frankly, darling, we’ll be so bloody old by then that we will hardly recognise each other.
Tomorrow, whatever else I do, I’ll catch up on your blogs.