..have a room of one's own, an independent income - and a clue.

I'm paraphrasing Woolfy, obviously. Mad old bint.  Filling her pockets with pebbles and wandering into the Ouse isn't my idea of fun, but then again, fun wasn't what she was doing it for. Still think she'd  have been quicker drinking from the bloody river, though... 

So, I have, for a long time, forgotten what it's like to write anything other than Facebook posts or half arsed policy responses. Once upon a time, I was creative. I played with words for fun. Now I do unpleasant things with and to words for money. My imagination is in hibernation (unless it really is dead and liquefying like a poorly overwintered tortoise... which is possible. Very possible.) So this is where I hope to try to prod a little life back into it.

I'm not making any promises. This could die a death and be the only post, like a good 90% of blogs ever started, but at least I'm thinking about it.