Wow! Last night I slept really well for the first time in a good few weeks.

Not 100% sure why I've not been sleeping properly - I have never been an accomplished sleeper - but I was rapidly nearing utter exhaustion. Getting up in the morning my legs would be aching; on the train I sometimes couldn't even be bothered to read; at night all I could think of was closing my eyes.

I want to give credit to my blog for allowing me some release, but I don't know if I can. I'm sure it didn't do any harm. So I thought I would try again today!

I even had some dreams that I can recall. I'm sure I do dream, but I don't generally remember my dreams. Last night I dreamt that the Underground had extended its platforms and trains, and that these now ran into the tunnels. It was a good dream: non-sensical and non-threatening and with no worry hidden meaning (I hope).

Being a bit more observant this morning I noticed the little sheep and lambs sauntering about in fields outside the train window. Peaceful things, but I can never figure out how they manage to keep themselves amused all day. Guess they are to stupid (but not in a bad way) to be bored.

Humans seem to be the opposite: the stupidest people seem to get bored the quickest.

It was windy last night and I imagined the lambs being blown away, chased by bleating mothers. They should have tethers. It would prevent mistaken identities too; they all have such similar fashion sense.

So I haven't written anything for a while. Not for any particular reason; just haven't found the time (or more realistically made the time). Not the way to become a writer I guess.

But doesn't life so rudely intrude? You think I'll write at night, when I've had my tea, washed the dishes and ironed my clothes and then your eyes are heavy, your head aches and it's all you can do to brush your face and wash your teeth before collapsing into your plump bosom of a bed.

So instead your brain, constant creator of plots and twisted tales, a wily but scarred veteran of bodily coups, decides : Mornings! First thing! Can't be tired if you've done nothing else! Problem solved. It chatters happily to itself, leaving you to your own devices for a time. You forget.

The alarm goes off at five-thirty sharp and you spring energetically from bed, all that potential released and realised in a supernova of creative energy. You bounce into the kitchen to get the coffee filter on the go - astronauts need rocket fuel! - and bound into shower. Soak, soap, lather, rinse and quickly swaddled by the embrace of a still warm towel.

No, you don't. I know you don't and you know you don't. Plain fiction is what it is (but maybe that's what you're good at?). So your writing suffers. You don't practice. You don't vent. Words and letters swirl in your subconscious until finally they are overflowing: you are drowning in alphabetti spaghetti.

What cost not writing? Keeping it all in?

You'll burst you will. Pop like an overblown balloon but without the deprecating chuckles afterwards.