So, argh, there are about a hundred things I still haven't written about. I will try to get round to them. There's folk and eels and cake and the T. S. Eliot tick-list, and the names of flowers, and half a dozen happy stories, and all these are good things to write about.

Then there's my job, and that's not such a good thing to write about, and I'm so tired of asking all you good people for advice because you give it and I feel all inspired for about half a day and then I slip back into the same old rut, and each time it gets harder to ask or to do anything. Boring, boring.

Then there's stomach-aches and picnics and money and trousers and music and coffee and tidying and phones and houses and weather and tuna and shoes, and all sorts of other things that are vaguely boring to write about but I might put them down anyway just for the sake of it, or link them to pictures of kittens, or perhaps weave them into some kind of hilarious yet poignant metaphysical meanderings. Ha.

But for the time being, today, I'm just staring at the screen and wondering whether it's lunchtime yet, and that's how the years pass, and before you know it somebody else has written all your stories.