Writer’s blockage – or should I say blogage
It’s now August and I haven’t updated my blog since Easter, which is fairly shit of me. I think it’s because I write for a living, so clearly can’t be arsed to do any more wordage.
Since Easter, me and the kid and Lola the cat have been joined by a pug puppy Boris, and moved back to the old house in the countryside – the house we left four years ago when I couldn’t bear to live there any more without David.
But now we’re back, and I don’t why it took me so long. It’s like slipping back into an old dress – you’re delighted you can still fit a size 10, but you wish you’d got those unmentionable stains dry-cleaned.
Village life is very busy in the summer, especially when one of your dearest friends lives nearby and has been awarded the title Miss Volunteer 2015. And you can’t let your friends do it all on their own now, can you? Although, frankly, she’s on her own with the bell-ringing. Where I’m from in London, that usually just means last orders at the bar.
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