Dear God give me something to say.
I had no post yesterday nor the day before not because of time pressure or overwork, but because I couldn’t think of anything to write about. I’ve sat down here now and forced myself to write anyway, in the unlikely-to-be-fulfilled hope that what I produce, with absolutely no ideas in my head, will turn out to be brilliant.
I am effectively casting myself in the role of one hundred typewritered monkeys.
What far more likely is that what emerges will be the height of waffle, if “the height of” and “waffle” even belong in the same phrase. It may well be the lowth of waffle, and I apologise to Spellcheck for that word, I’m put it in deliberately to annoy it while its still trying to recover from the word “typewritered”.
Things are bad when you’re reduced to relieving your writer’s block by poking a spelling-aid with a stick.
I could write that Tingirl and Mrs Tin went to the stage show of Dirty Dancing on Thursday, but there you go, I’ve written it. I didn’t go so can’t say a lot, except that both of them arrived home with huge smiles on their faces, apparently it’s great fun.
I could write that I have spent the afternoon dividing copper coins into one, two and five-cent coins, part of the proceeds of a bag-pack that Tinson2 and his friends undertook, but that would probably be as tedious to read about as it was to do.
In the absence of daily WordPress prompts I could make up a typical one on their behalf (“today is January 21st, how do you feel about that?”) and then slag it.
Or I could just accept that I have temporarily lost my mojo, and will recover it again soon.
Once I find out what a mojo looks like.