It was a dazzling, frosty day, when the sun caught a yellowhammer on the telephone wires and made it electric bright, and blinded me so I couldn't see the geese I could hear. Three perfect young roe deer ventured out on to the grass from the wood, antlers soft and downy.
Seeds and seed potatoes have arrived, it's the first official day of spring, the sun is shining and the garden and allotments are calling. I'm trying some new techniques this year, involving collecting rotting wood - more interesting things to take on the bus!
So many other things are calling too, though: house cleaning now the sunlight is showing up the dust; knitting, beading, and all those other too tempting crafts; the actual paying jobs; a whole heap of books; and of course writing. I can't say I'm entirely happy with the way it's going: I'm not sure if one would call it a complex plot or just messy, or whether the mess is in my mind (which has far, far too many things going on in it). Is it just a duff book, or is this pre-publication black dog? I'm not in a position to judge!