Coot Club by Arthur Ransome

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How careless people were.

This is one of those weeks in which plenty has happened and I should have loads of material, but no. I have nothing but the empty, clattering taps of the keyboard.

I should be writing about this:

A wonderful friend came to visit and we climbed a mountain

Our dear dog died

The cats are now welcomish in the house

My boss approved my idea for a new book series

My oldest boy started playing piano again

I had dinner with two friends I haven’t seen in six months

And then our dog died the same night

I had a refreshingly complex cocktail made by a friend I haven’t seen for five months

I’ve been re-watching a certain TV show and feeling nostalgic for commercials

Our once-muddy horse paddock is now a lush green field

Another friend called in the evening because her horse was sick and the first friend and I got to stand in a dark paddock while the horse got better

Not only did my boss approve my idea for a new series but I get to write one of the first books in the new series

Did I mention I climbed a mountain? It was lovely and windy and the cookies tasted extra good.

See? I have plenty to write about. But these days have been packed (see above). And now one boy is leaning on my legs finishing his homework and the other is sitting on the floor at my feet reading and the other other is asleep in bed. And I’m ready for a cup of hot cider and a TV show with my honey. So. Goodnight.

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