Ideas I cook up late at night, alone, are usually killed off in the morning (they wither pathetically). Last night I decided that, being as I am going back to uni soon for this silly creative writing degree, I should practice writing again and blog seemed a perfectly handsome way to do this.

Earl Gay. I'm not happy with this name, but it was the only thing I could think of last night (O last night). And I don't think I'm going to change it.

This past week has been a barren waste of time. And it has been GLORIOUS. I cannot stress enough the value of a stretch of time in which you have absolutely nothing at all to do. No work, no commitments, no reason to get us earlier than 10 o'clock, no reasons to worry. This past week has been completely void so I've been able to fill it with gross trivialities such as reading Keats in the garden, writing poems about butterflies and PLAYING MUSIC AS LOUD AS I BLOODY WANT TO BECAUSE MY NEIGHBOURS ARE EITHER DEAD, SENILE OR DEAF.

Brewood is lovely, really pretty, but it's a typical little shire town where buses are a rarity and people stare at you if walk into a pub that you haven't been frequenting for at least 10 years. There are lots of bees, and midges and butterflies. It is the sort of place where you can see every star in the sky at night but instead of bottles and wrappers on the roads and canalsides you will find scores of dead rabbits, badgers, pigeons and pheasants. I was actually walking along the canal yesterday and (I do not decieve you) I walked past a pigeon which had somehow managed to remain standing after having its head bitten off.