is that there isn't one. It is not my job (on the contrary), it is not a habit of mine to air my personal thoughts that (or this) publicly. I don't really think that there are more than about seven people out that there who would really care anyway - and I see them more or less often in real life anyway so that is not even an issue.

No, it is just about writing isn't it? Like a diary is just about writing things down and like writers like to just write.

I am just re-adjusting back to work after a holiday somewhere Scandinavian. It was good in an almost unexpected way. It made me consider my love for the place that will always be my rooty home (spiritual? In a way - just not that one), the place that will always be to me the most beautiful I know

... about the dust settled on a Cannondale downtube, the insect humm and rattle and intense summer heat reflected in a ray of low evening light before the last manic downhill home ... the wave of burnt oak gold slowly falling canopy that rolls away over several horizons ... the village woodsmoke that perfumes the air and you realise that the evenings are closing in for winter ... the early spring mornings blanketed in mist that you know will clear to crystal light and fresh new blossom... the way that words do no justice to being there and feeling at home

but Norway was new (OK, so I've been before - just not to explore like this time) and stunning and so generous in proportion for such a 'small' country. What with the last trip to France, it was all enough to inspire me. To get me excited again about ideas that I am almost sure that I have. To maybe make me write again - even though I didn't realise it while I was there - so here I am. Blogging would you believe it?...