By the time you read this, I’ll be riding the rails again. Down to Brighton, to visit Progress Bar. Pre-Spring mental cleaning, forcing myself out of the house, trading delta for coastline but somehow never far from littoral spaces. It seems that, no matter what I do lately, I’m never more than ten or fifteen minutes away from shifting sands. Which is probably as good a metaphor for being a freelance writer as any of us are going to get today. The ground is somehow never quite solid enough, and a big enough wave could crash down on everything and drag it back out to sea. You’ve got to really like standing on the shore. The view is great, but never for a minute kid yourself that you’re building your castles out of bricks and steel.