I sit at the keyboard waiting for inspiration. And I wait and I wait and I wait. Nothing. I once read Harold Robbins used to go away for a month during August if I remember right, write feverishly and, hey presto, another blockbuster. Mind you, Robbins wasn't a nonentity living a non existence on the edge of Derby.
I've probably got this blogging thing all wrong but who cares. My mind wanders to a local pub visit in the week. I was constantly waylaid, not maliciously by individuals I taught at the local school. One informed me he is now forty eight years of age, perish the thought. Same age as my wife. Only my wife is not forty eight, she was born in forty eight. I'm losing it more than I thought. Doesn't time fly when you're enjoying yourself.
We wandered across the car park to our pride and joy, a recently acquired motor home. Five teenagers are viewing it intently. A feeling of unease takes over. One of the five seeks my attention. My apprehension increases. "Nice motor" he announces appreciatively. "Is that a private number plate?" We chat, examine my wife's 0008 PAU and off we go. How quickly we judge the young and all too often look for the worst.
Perhaps this inspiration thing is all around me and I'm looking in the wrong places.
Mine Pie Cake
2 days ago