A quill in your tomato

Okay, okay, don't throw things; I'm having some serious writer's block here. The more astute might read into that what they will... Around 2am I was pretty sure I knew where I was going, nay, which furrow I was to plough (partially back into the workshop to try a few things and take a few more pics) but by the time it came to putting fingers (two) to keyboard, I was as a blank page. And I hate that. When it flows it's just great and you can do the whole Jimmy Cagney thing and yell "on top of the world, ma!" if you weren't worried that someone might hear you... When it doesn't - well you're the hero in Shakespeare In Love with nothing but cramp in your hand, screwed up bits of parchment and a quill in your tomato... Metaphorically speaking, forsooth.

I went for a walk instead and quite honestly that was no less worrying. It was warm enough for shirt sleeves (albeit a thickish shirt) and there was gorse (furze as it's called round here), campion and, gods help us, foxgloves in flower in the hedgerow. I could have sworn the calendar was turned to November this morning. Certainly the trees have got the idea and are as bare as Rowland Hilder could wish for, but honestly it isn't much surprise to see bees, wasps and a Red Admiral Butterfly about the place. It's not that I like it cold exactly, but it's helpful to know which time of year it is without have recourse to the calendar or seeing if all the newsreaders have poppies in their lapels.