Two years!!

It's been two years. More than that actually - two years, four months and two days since I last posted a blog. Even by my standard that's considerable procrastination.

Excuses have always been in plentiful supply though. Let's have a closer look at some of them.

"I'm working all the time, and too tired when I get home to do anything other than watch Midsomer Murders, or fall asleep, or most likely, both."

To be fair to Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, I've made it through the entire two hours more often than not. On the occasions when I have drifted off, I usually wake up in time for the denouement, to realise that missing around two thirds of the programme hasn't made the slightest difference to my understanding of the plotline.

The program which works its soporific magic on me better than a bottle of Tamazapam is, without question, "Who Do You Think You Are?" I'm usually out cold well before the minor celebrity in search of his or her past has finished that first conversation with Auntie Betty about the mysterious second great uncle twice removed who left Stevenage for a better life running a cotton plantation in St Lucia, thus providing said lucky minor celeb cum amateur genealogist with an all expenses paid holiday in the Carribean.

But I digress. I'm not working any more. In fact, I might even be retired! It's hard to tell when your a freelance worker. Am I having an extended "rest" between contracts? Or is this it? It's a bit like giving up smoking. I last had a cigarette in 1996 (September 14th, 2pm to be precise, at the A14 Service Area). But have I really given up? Once a smoker, always a smoker? Only on my death bed (if I make it that far) will I truly be able to say 'I gave up smoking!!'

So not working has given me plenty of time to write. Sadly no. You see, all the inspiration comes from the characters and situations I meet on a daily basis at the workplace, so that's it - no more inspiration.

"There are so many chores which I have set aside to complete during these resting periods between contracts."

How attractive these chores suddenly seem compared to sitting at the PC, staring at a blank Word document. I've been off for four months now. New kitchen cupboards have been put up; the spare bedroom has been repainted; every item in the house has been cleaned, fixed, patched, polished, painted, re-arranged, dug, planted, weeded, tidied, taken to the tip or handed in to the Charity Shop.

That just leaves the cars to be washed, but really! I do have some principles left.

"Writing is antisocial." Lia works from home and it's extremely rude of me to lock myself away for hours on end, when instead I could be distracting her from running her own business and making money for me to spend. Those cups of tea don't make themselves you know!

Lia's suggestion is to pack me and the laptop off to the pub to do my creative writing over a pint. So far I haven't taken up this golden opportunity (I still have a few other excuses outstanding). I've a feeling she wants me out of the house for a bit, and anyway, it sounds like a bit of a slippery slope to me. I expect that's how Dylan Thomas became an alcoholic.

'Look you Dylan,' (for that is how I imagine Caitlin Macnamara would have addressed her husband), 'why don't you just pop down to the Sailors Arms and finish off that "Under Milk Wood" thing you've been fretting about for months! Just one pint now!'

But Lia's been away in Italy since last Tuesday, visiting family. It was 10:30 when we arrived at Heathrow Terminal 5 departures bay; I remember because Ken Bruce's Pop Master had just started on Radio 2.

'I'm really going to miss you this week,' said Lia tenderly, as we pulled into a free space.

'DIDO!!' I shouted, for this was indeed the correct answer to question one of Pop Master.

'And don't forget to blog!' she added. 

Well I've tried. Every morning, sitting at the PC with a nice, clean, fresh, blank Microsoft Word document displayed on the screen, but inspiration? None.

Now a week has gone by, Lia flies back tonight, and not a single sentence written. I'm so sorry to have let her down. It would seem that I'm just not the writing type, after all.