Losing Muse Alert

I think I can see my creative muse waving goodbye. It's standing on the other side of the studio, wreathed in mist from the smoke machine, the twinkle of the star cloth reflected in its glasses.

Glasses? Interesting concept. I'm always complimenting Pixie when she wears her glasses. I wear specs myself, have done so since I started learning to drive- my passengers insisted on it as the words 'Is there anything coming' as I pulled out to overtake were apparently a little unnerving.

I should have worn them at school but vanity prevented it. As a result I saw nothing that was explained on the board and suffered academically. The astute amongst you will be asking why I didn't sit at the front of the class although you already know the answer. Pride - the kids who reckoned they were something sat at the back.

But would a muse wear glasses? Shouldn't they be symbolic of perfection? Maybe so but Pixie reading is the image I'll keep in mind for a muse (and she is perfection!).

So why do I think my writing muse is taking leave? Difficult to say. I've noticed that the inclination to write these posts comes and goes and rarely lasts long. Perhaps I'm just too fickle, always waiting for the next challenge and easily tiring of the present one. Low boredom threshold? I don't think so although some may disagree. I used to be into a lot of apparently mind-blowingly boring hobbies - train-spotting, ham radio, bird-watching, all activities where the ability to sit in one place and await events was essential. Maybe I've grown out of it. As you get older perhaps you have only two choices - settle into routine and wait it out or scrabble after as much new experience as possible. I'm more tempted by the latter.

But it won't include pot-holing. I've not got many phobias but one definite is a fear of being trapped in a tunnel or hole underground. I don't mind being below but it has to be in an area where I can stand and, should I feel the urge, leap. Darkness is OK but anything involving hands-and-knees is out. Dragging myself on my well-proportioned belly through rocky passageways is not on the menu.

So what is on the menu?

Well, it's Saturday and, as a result, the restaurant where I'm working is shut (anyone who entertained any thoughts that the UK might be awakening to the idea of service take note). So it's Tesco's again, a miserable choice of sandwiches, cold pasta and ready-meals. What I wouldn't do for a plate of sausage & mash with mushy peas; actually I wouldn't be allowed sausages as I had them for breakfast - it's one of Pixie's more interesting rules for life.

So there you are. I started this post assuming my muse was off on an extended break and then, with its assistance, I've managed to put together an long rambling missive about absolutely nothing.

Ah, now I look more closely, I can see that it's just signaling that it's popping out for a Cappuccino and would I like one?

Fat chance - the canteen's closed.

It's a beautiful, sunny day in London so here's an image of a rain storm on Dartmoor in Devon - Yin & Yang.