Blank Page

 I’ve forgotten how to write a blog every day. I was sitting here waiting for the muse to appear but she refused to show up. Every subject seemed wrong.

She thought about strikes, defective governments, Donald Trump on the golf course, wild garlic butter, the useless nature of May with its copious Bank Holidays, KC3C or the Kingy Thingy. She even wondered if she should confess to never having liked Diana anyway. No. Don’t! Strike that. Then she thought about a historical subject, maybe something from 1882 about the Berlin wool repository in the High Street - too niche. 

Maybe something on names? The demise of names like Acsah or the cyclical nature of the flower names. Flower names are seasonal and we are currently in the late summer of the naming season. Or I could tell you about how I always read the name Hugh as huge and go on to say that Maldon had an MP called Hugh Dick from 1827 to 1830. Don’t google Hugh Dick looking for a picture.

Here’s a picture of my dog having a wee in the bluebells instead.

Blank pages are quite dangerous, I’ve decided.