Generally, when I sit down to write these posts (tomorrow marks six months of a post every day!) I have an idea what I’ll say, even if it’s just a little nugget of a topic. Sometimes I make notes through the day, or bookmark a link, or make a mental note of something that’s happened on WhatsApp or Twitter that can be the springboard for a swallow-dive into the word soup.
Tonight, nada. Zilch.
I can’t think of anything I haven’t said before about the Brexit shitshow, climate change or Covid, and I’m no more inclined to write about them again than you likely are to read about them. Is it any wonder I sit in the shed and write weird fiction while listening to deeply unfashionable music?
Sorry.
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Music: this is one of the CDs I listened to this afternoon. The keen-eared might spot that Steely Dan borrowed the intro to this for RIckie Don’t Lose That Number, intentionally or otherwise. I also listened to some spiffing vinyl from 1977/8 which may provide music here in evenings to come.
Anyway, as I’ve said before, it’s an immutable law of the universe: you can’t go wrong with a Blue Note album. Horace Silver: Song For My Father.
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