Nothing to say

At the beginning of lockdown I told myself that I was going to write a blog every day. I thought it would be interesting to look back on. I thought it would be good for my mental health. I thought it would be a good writing warm up for days when I have no excuse not to write ‘properly’.
I have only missed one day, when no one wanted to experience the contents of my brain.
I thought it would be hard because there was nothing to do there would be nothing to write about. How could I have been so wrong?

Until today, I’ve woken up every morning with something in my head. It hasn’t always gone exactly in the direction I thought it would but I had something to write about.

Today, though, there’s nothing. I am a damp, wrung out sponge.

I could write about some children and teachers going back to school and the feeling of missing out but what’s the point?
I could write about the murder of George Floyd, riots in America and Black Lives Matter but what contribution, as a white middle class middle aged privileged woman do I have to make on the subject?
I could write about the new format of the Archers that everyone seems to hate but I quite like it.
I could write about the government standing in long queues to vote because Jacob Rees Mogg thought it would be a good idea but what’s the point, when they stood in line saying how stupid it was and then voted for it?
I could write about one of the cases I’ve been transcribing from the old court records but I’ve been a bit lazy and keep getting sidetracked by FindMyPast and trying to work out where everyone lived.
I could write about daily flute practise and how my top notes are becoming sweeter and easier but no one cares.
I could write about my garden or the birds but you’ve heard it all before!
I could write a rant about how unless they open public toilets soon people, like the little girl I saw in the park yesterday, are just going to take down their pants and pee wherever they like, while their frazzled mums return to their youth, sitting in the park, necking as much wine as they can with a mate before they have to get back to schoolwork. However, no one wants to read about peeing and pooing in the street.
I could write about being at level 4 and ending lockdown but as the levels were made up anyway, who cares?
I could write about how bad the smell of hand sanitiser seems to be for my brain but, again, who cares?
I could write about all the things that I could write about, if only I could be bothered.

So, I’m sorry if you’ve wasted your time reading today’s blog but I have nothing to say.

Here’s a picture of some radishes that I grew instead.