My plan was to blog every day.  And I look at my last entry and find it was three weeks ago.  This worries me slightly: do I not have anything to say?  Do I lead a very dull life?  Surely a real writer would be able to find something to write about?

And the answers are yes, probably and maybe.

Reading 'how to' books on writing, one thing that is continually emphasised is the use of conflict.  There must be conflict to keep the reader turning the pages, to show the characters' true depths.  We can all relate to conflict, whether it is something we can relate to or just to make us feel cosier in our lives.

And that I think is the key.  I am blessed with a very comfortable, stable life and so the irritations that occur feel so trivial that I don't want to bother anyone else with them.  I was hoping there would be more little quirky things from the train, but I find tweeting them is more fun.  So, in this case, silence is definitely golden...

The time was passing with the leisurely confidence that there is plenty to spare.  Clouds were still firmly controlling the sky, but she felt the sunshine.

It's been a funny couple of days.  Not funny ha-ha or even peculiar, just funny in the sense that I haven't felt so out of time for a while.  The last days of unemployment were like this, when the four walls you see are all you will see all day.  And then, at the end of the day, when normally you would come home, I have been sallying forth to go to things (3 Essex Book Fest events in one week) - it's all the wrong way round.

When you are in this state, little things can take on vast proportions.  A letter regarding a gift subscription to a magazine for my husband for example.  I bought 6 months, in case he didn't like it.  I've already ignored one 'resubscribe' letter, to get another one saying 'you only have 3 issues left (ie half!) and now have 14 days to sign up for 12 months or we'll write to the recipient.'  I did actually check 'blackmail' in the dictionary and this is it.

The joys of Twitter - I've got an outline apology and, if I give them the details, a pledge not to send the letter.  But nothing about not sending it to others...

She pressed send, imagining the thud as the tweet landed, weighted down with strong words.  Then the coin-flip of whether anyone would hear.  In silence, waiting.

One of the joys of commuting (yes, there are a few) is that you have a perfect chance to observe your fellow humans with their guard down.  It's because it is such an unnatural environment, we all pretend that everyone else is invisible for the duration of the journey.  I'm as guilty as the rest, happily putting my make up on each morning on the train, when I would never do the same sitting in a cafe.

Just occasionally, conversations start, though normally it takes an event to bring hardened commuters together.  If the train is stuck for example, people chat, offer lifts as we all remember that we are humans, not robots.  That is why the experience below was so peculiar - it was all so prosaic and ordinary, I had done nothing to provoke a reaction.  I was on the train and went slowly passed a bloke standing on the platform.  We made eye-contact and the look of mingled fury and rage I got was incredible. I had no idea what I'd done to provoke it - maybe he'd just had a bad day, but my writer's mind immediately starting racing through scenarios and consequences...

Their eyes met, sliding over each other as the train wheezed to a stop.  Prickling with threat, she waited, tense with anticipation until the train restarted

Surprises: the older I get, the less I like them.  It is normally because they add a layer of unnecessary complexity to life.  Simple arrangements become houses of cards, made up of multiple fragile pieces, any of which could blow over at any moment.

 On another note, I can remember doing the below with a record player...sigh...

Just the opening chords, building softly, brought his face into sharp focus.  Then that one line that summed it all up, the crescendo.  She pressed repeat.

I would love to know what activity has the greatest amount of displacement activity attached to it, but writing must be in the top 10.  You start, full of good intentions, then spend a couple of hours drawing out a great spreadsheet showing who features in each chapter.  Then you start to write, but decide that before you put it down you had better check something.  So you do that and that leads onto the germ of another idea, which you think about for a while and, before you know it, the time you put aside for writing is gone.

Never mind, you say.  I shall be so much better prepared next time.

Hmm. As per the advert, rinse, repeat.  

‘I don’t procrastinate’, she thought, unloading the washing machine. ‘I don’t usually procrastinate’ she clarified, investigating 18th century fashions. ‘I don’t, eek, is that the time?’

A few years ago, I switched away from an electronic calender to a paper diary for my personal appointments.  And what a revelation - I've not gone back.  Entries do not vanish mysteriously and paper doesn't beep suddenly in embarrassing places.  Use of pencil and a rubber allows instant editing and no need to scroll through lots of pages to get to today.  I suppose the only thing that can come as a shock is to open a new week and find it a complete, white blank.  But, then the positive kicked in - a chance to rest, refresh and recharge.  And then, who knows where things can go...

The rain was continuous, a steady drip of grey, bleeding colour into the drains.  She sought colour as, feathers fluffed, a lone bird sought shrivelled berries.

Sometimes I wonder about people (actually I wonder about people a lot - I'm very nosy).  But sometimes I wonder about specific people and why they bother to stay together.  Some couples don't seem to like each other very much and seem to always focus on the other's faults rather than their good points, delighting in pointing them out to others.  

Yes, we have moved on with the complaints, and it is more likely to be about table manners than domestic violence, but even so, it puts a listener in a rather iniquitous position - do you agree and be seen to condemn someone or disagree on principle and accuse someone of lying.

In this particular case, I took the coward's way out and changed the subject.

I had to open a conversation. “So, how long have you been married?” “Forty years.  Still trying to improve him.” I wonder whether perfection is attainable.