Recently I've wanted so much to give up blogging. The whole every day thing is not appealing at the moment; I'm tired and stressed and finding it hard to pull together the energy or inclination. The only thing that's stopping me from giving up is the thought that I'm just hitting a wall, reaching a steep hill, and at the other side is easy and fun writing again. That's actually not the only reason; if I was to suggest giving up my wonderful and encouraging partner would certainly not allow it. It doesn't help that we have well and truly entered winter. The darkness as fallen, summer died fast, and every morning I awake in the dark; walk to work in the gloom, under clouds and in chill winds. In the evening I leave work in similar conditions. The occasions I leave the building, or catch sight of a window I see the cold flood waters, wash away us all, take us with the floods; the rash of negativity, is seen one-sidedly, burn away the day; the nervous, the drifting, the heaving; wash away us all, take us with the floods.
If I keep up this grimly depressing cloudhead I'll soon be preferring Eastenders to Coronation Street; god forbid. Instead of seasonal snow floating and settling, the sky fights back with heavy-hearted pelting hailstones, rattling the windowpanes and biting uncovered skin. Caught between the warring fronts of ice age and global warming with only a tiny flat in a damp old terrace in Old Trafford for protection. Armed only with a nice warm new coat; last years supply of cheap new gloves has predictably vanished so now my little fingers are chilly, woe.
Got a week and a bit off work at Christmas and I intend to come back rested and feeling as though time was well spent. For that I am going to need a Christmas cardigan and novelty bowtie (preferably musical and with a flashing LED), mulled wine, a few days with the inlaws and a few days with the blood-rellies, slippers, socks, slipper-socks, flip-flops, strike that, brussels sprouts, white wine in the sun, etc. So, yeah. Snow please.