Yes, you with the motorbike!

I could have had a motorbike you know!

I did once!  In a story, I had a motorbike!

It was a full-length romance, and I went in as ‘she’, and when she ran away from a sticky situation – and ended up at the mansion (would be) of he who was to become the hero – she saw something in the pond in front (it was a lake but I called it a pond) and it turned out to be a body, floating face down.

I couldn’t help it, writing that!

It was a romance but it was turning into a horror story!

Writing itself, this story – the heroine entered the mansion, which was undergoing renovation work, and she went along passages, and she found his sandwiches tied up in string – no, in paper (the string belongs to another story) – and she thought they must belong to the workman who was doing-up this place (she came from the slums) and then she bumped into him (literally) and – he wasn’t the workman at all but the haughty lord who was handy as well as supercilious!

Anyway, she had a motorbike and full leather gear – to escape away.

No.  I didn’t keep that story.



I’m a writer, first and foremost.

I write every day – day in, day out.

It is a rare day wherein I do not write.

Even if I am away – for a social occasion – I have my notebook.

I have reams of writing, which I am going through – to see what is there.

I am up to ‘February 2016’ now – from the diary – and so I get close to meeting myself here.

My writing isn’t a game.  It is deadly serious.

I play games – Nintendo – when I need to come away from the writing for a while – but the writing itself . . .

What rot!  I was going to say that the writing itself is not a game but, sometimes, I play games with the writing.

I am blogging to find out precisely what I am willing to let into the public sphere, and what I want to keep private – I know that much now.

Eventually, it all may go public.

I saw a woman on the bus today with two children who had Down’s Syndrome – they were twins.

You take what life gives you.

Sometimes, you choose.


Keep in the loop. Write something.

It’s hot here today.  We’re going to have about four days of heat – the weather person said something like that – but, with me, opinion goes in one ear and out the other.

I’m wearing a new blue top.  Don’t you have difficulty getting underwear?  I do.

Ah!  I know what I was getting round to saying.  I met that awful woman again – the one I’ve been avoiding all winter (walking on the other side of the road all the time so that I wouldn’t bump into her).

She was out on her own, without her dogs – that is unusual, but I have been seeing them, over the winter, with other people – I gathered that she must have been asking neighbours and friends to walk them (while she got her knee and hip sorted out) – she had a painful knee, the pain from which spread, over the times I saw her – it was an exceptionally warm summer last year – to her hip.  What I’m saying is, she seemed to be out all times, walking her dogs – but just up and down that one stretch – she never seemed to be going anywhere – just looking for people to talk to – and once she had you, that was it – you couldn’t get away.

I can’t go on telling this story just now – but – these days, the pain is in her upper back where your bra strap goes – no mention of her knee or hip – and since she didn’t, I wasn’t going to – but this was why I was thinking of underwear – and she moved to the side of me – and I didn’t flinch – and she reached round me, and touched me to illustrate, as she was saying this – just where the bra strap goes.

Not that I wear one.

Or – I’ll wear one so loose it hardly does the bizz – when it’s too hot for my vest.  (But it hadn’t been that day.)

But why couldn’t she have touched her own – where her bra goes – to illustrate?

She did that before – I can’t remember what that was about, except that she had pain in her knee that was spreading up into her hip – but it was – touch my hand, touch my hand . . .

I was starting to get sore with her constant flicking.  I am somewhat arthritic myself.

Or some fact like that which the doctors can’t agree upon . . .

Swollen round the joints sometimes, I am – it used to be worse – heat in the hip areas (and she’s on about her pain) – too hot at night – the only person in the neighbourhood to have my bedroom window open when it is – snowing outside . . .

I don’t mind being touched, but she was annoyingly rhythmic about it.

I don’t mind being hugged by family and friends but this woman is creepy – was a boss at the chemical plant – a bossy boss, she’d divulged.  She had been driving since she was eight years old, she confided.

Private land, I said.

Well, yes, she answered.

(Well it had to be private land.  People aren’t allowed on the road – no matter how young they are – until they have passed their test.)

She had some tablets from the doctor.

I asked what they were.  (I’m keeping an eye on what doctors do and do not do.)

And she said they were small, in a little red box – drawing the box in the air as she said this – I got the impression she thought I was going too far in asking what medication she was on.

So I said – well, I never know which cars are which – I talk about ‘little red ones that have a wheel on each corner’.

I was being upright straight.

And I drew it in the air.

It was only later that I thought what that must have looked like – but she’s a bully – I can’t be doing with it – I may think, on my surface, that I’m responding in an ordinary way – but I tell you – I’ve been opening my throat chakras, and my inner takes care of what my outer may shrink from.

Do you know – I don’t like that woman.  I shall continue having as little to do with her as possible.

And, despite myself, I’ve told that much of that story.


I’ve been busy, I could say, bright and breezy.

And that would be true but I am always busy.  I write every day.

The thing is, I’ve been at odds with myself.

I can surmise how this came about – someone appearing on my scene who had been gone for a while and then turned up – and I couldn’t be sure of her.  But I couldn’t be sure of my unsurety of her, either.

I didn’t know what to think.

And, meanwhile, I dropped into that slough, and had no recourse but to wallow there, until I had the confidence to think – no, I am right – she is wrong, even if it is difficult finding where she is.  I must believe in myself, I thought.

There are set procedures.  There are procedures that become set within new practices.  I’m thinking about blogging here; the word ‘corporate’ came into my head there, but I barely know what that means.  My ignorance in – I don’t know – the gears of how the world works – I’m not as ignorant as I once was – I have the newspaper now and I’m still interested in that – enough to go out for it every day – but I’m at an age when it often happens, from what I’ve seen – this interest in the world that you didn’t have time for when you were ensconced in your – I’m lost in this thought and frantically jotting down, as I frequently do, in fact – if I lose that sense of self-consciousness.

Yes.  I need to lose that.

Write and cross out –

I think I’m at something of an impasse here.


Humph!  Humph!

I said, in my last blog, that I always felt terrible in – I think it was – March.  (In fact, April is worse.)

And a blogger – he said – oh, surely just the moving over of the – blah, blah – sun or equinox or (insert your favourite flavour of knowledge) can’t change anything?

Well, have things your own way – through physics or meteorology or –

do have difficulties every year in March, and things get worse in April.

I don’t know how I get through.  I really don’t.

But I do.

So far, I have done.

But there are always surprises at this time of year.

Oh, there are different discourses, you know, different world-views – don’t get me started on all that.

But that guy, big-head though he was, was not even on the same page from which I had started!


I’m always glad when Easter is over.  It’ll be Good Friday soon, and then the Saturday, and then the Easter Sunday, and then they usually drag it out over the Monday.

If I write about it now, as a kind of preview, I may be able to avoid writing about the actual one – say what happens, how I felt, how I survived.

I hate Easter.

I’m not really religious, as they say, but I’m not going to apologise for that.  Those who are scandalized can bog off – as they say.

I speak specifics here, specifics to me.

There is something jarring from some Easter-past, that I have forgotten now – it’s on the tip of my brain –

I know.  There are Easter eggs, the Easter . . . chicks – the ringing wedding bells . . . church bells –

can remember, actually.  I went out on my usual food-shopping spree, this morning, and by the time I was coming back on the bus, I was thinking – of course!  Why didn’t I remember that when I was writing about Easter?

It just goes to show that you do hide things from yourself.

But I have only the details that I have, and there are some that I think must belong – but I couldn’t swear to it.

Lame ending, but it will not always be so.

Yes – I am very sorry to hear of the burning of Notre-Dame.