Grimbeau

Okay, that is one bottle of wine, lots of looking back chats with their accompaniment of sickness and deadlines, and a faceful of Xmas 1980. There I was in love; I brought a stupid woolly dress. In the New Year I became a writer who did not write, who just though that it would be okay to be a writer and get by. So, the writing in the head started, thought it would just come back to me when I needed it. It didn’t. It got lost in a swirl of events, politics, and society, getting by in difficult and changing times. Poverty and the history of others got a look in from time to time and then again an indulgence, an over-compensation, so it seems these days, looking back from now I just cannot say. It is a habit that I have fuelled and indulged. Time to quit (spilling the beans is never quitting, most times it is a diversionary tactic), and the choices are not options anymore; time has seen to that, inexorably. So, here I am sitting in another rainbow of maybes and what if’s. There are surely not better things to do?