Your humble bloggist is going to take a break.
My foot hurts. That’s nothing to do with it. Nor is what I’m told is a 20% chance of a stroke or heart attack in the next five years.
No, there are a few things on the old plate at the moment. Not that one is in much risk of getting what is sometimes called ‘a life’, but administering a short story and a portrait competition, one in the throes of judging, the other rapidly approaching its closing date, with concomitant rush of entries. Also helping a small Chinese schoolmistress negotiate her way around Europe, vicarious tourism and an emotionally trying experience, as daily pics of blue-sky locations and exotic foods can be viewed under cloudy grey Scottish skies.
Arranging other activities, helping an elderly friend move to a new computer, medical attention and other minor things that impinge on all our lives from time to time, mean that there is precious little of that time to devote to the novel in hand, so this luxury, this all-but-unread blog, should really fall by the wayside for a wee while.
I might pop by and post the fruits of my novelising labours, I suppose. But if not, let’s make a date for some sort of post after the UK’s general election, which is shaping up to be slightly less depressing than at first seemed likely. Say June 22. Or 15.
Watch, as they say, this space.
Postscript:
Apart from expressing my sorrow and sympathy for the folks affected by the attack in my old university town this week, I have little to add to the general outpourings.
Well, I have a lot to say, but don’t feel like saying it here.
