Christmas time and writerís block, but not entirely. The weather is foul, when it isnít raining its blowing a gale, the hail took all the leaves off my strawberry plants and the north-west wind burnt the spuds worse than the unexpected frost a month earlier. Plenty of time to write something with nothing else to do, but it doesnít seem to work like that - too many jobs undone to worry about and the stream of consciousness remains a muddy trickle like an unfenced creek on a dairy farm. A fine sunny day is best for writing, and we just havenít had many so far, and that, Mr Editor, is my excuse. (no keywords)
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