How strange is it that what was once a habit now feels so impossible to re-create, to handle once again. Five hundred words is like building a Pyramid. It’s not something my body, my hands, my brain can generate anymore. This is a lie, of course, that I say because it’s hot in here and I don’t feel entirely well, but I can do it.
I can do it by telling you about the way my tongue keeps pressing against the roof of my mouth so that both are quite raw and disagreeable with the other, but I can’t seem to make it stop. Stress? There’s always something dental going on with me, I’m afraid.
I can do it by telling you about the Great British Pottery Throw-Down. It’s what one needs in the absence of GBBO. It’s way more political and dare I say edgy? Yet, there’s the usual expected British tropes, the male and female judge and the unusual or perhaps unfortunate hair on the former, and British people just struggling with themselves.
I can’t do it by midnight. Tomorrow: a big, epic, pot-boiling, sun-shining whiz-bang of a post.