It has to be admitted that today I’m struggling for inspiration, boxed up inside this small flat for the seventh day straight and hiding from the second of incessant rain. While some writer’s vivid imaginations would no doubt flourish under such strict confinement, mine clearly derives its stimulus from fresh air and sun, both of which I’ve had none of in the last 48 hours. I’m by no means trying to write a novel but I have an inkling of what it feels like to have creative block. Picture a fidgety, restless, leg-tapping mind crossed with an imagination like a blowing tumbleweed scene in a classic Western film. My head is void of any figment of interesting thought and I would be doing myself and anyone reading this a dishonour by pretending that I was feeling otherwise. I want this to serve as a record which I can consult in years to come and recall the rollercoaster of feelings as they were, when they were. Not sure how well I’ll sleep tonight with all the excitement of my big trip to the supermarket tomorrow. Never again will I view shopping and life-admin errands, that somehow consume so much of my time in real life, as tedious.