Proper British Summer

It’s here.  Pissing down with rain, high winds, plummeting towards ten degrees, sky like slate and permafrost.  Another dead project laid in the mud this morning, with another one coughing and resting one skinny foot in the grave.  Turn all the lights on, flick the heaters into life, close another notebook and put it in the bag.  It’s hard not to mourn these things, especially when they could have provided financial security for years.  But there is pleasure in opening a new notebook, to spend time plumbing your own mind to see if anything new has grown in the silt and to explore the opportunity to perhaps, hopefully, say something new.  And maybe it’ll be sunny tomorrow.