Misery comes in stages.
First, the creeping realisation that one has not written anything in quite some time.
Then the efforts to Make Some Time to Write.
One has nothing to write about.
And anyway, other people have written about it. Much better than I can.
Try anyway? Nothing comes. Psyllium husk, where art thou?
Then, to rub it in, nice people offer me money to write. (I shall not repeat not voice my suspicion that they then sit back and gloat over my discomfiture.)
Still, nothing comes.
One might as well write nothing.
Hence this post.
