Not much to write home about...

My blogging is becoming very patchy. Sometimes I post and sometimes I don't and I wonder if anyone really notices except me.

I always know when I don't post my daily letter to myself, though.

That's what they are really: letters to myself. Snapshots in my time detailing every nuance of how I'm feeling and not feeling. well, not every nuance but most, although they are often written in my own cryptic code - so cryptic that I wonder if in years to come even I will remember them.

Of course it isn't all there. It is an edited version, only revealing what I consider to be acceptable for my audience's pallet. Yes, it really is edited, oh the the truth is there but it's hiding in the shadows.

Yes my blog is patchy these days. Well, I haven't much to shout about, and time is scarce, and more and more I'd rather have my bed than my keypad, and inspiration seems to be a dimming thing and the most enlightening thought that I have had this week is a remark about scattering my ashes handful by handful all over the town where I grew up in.

'And when I pass away I'd like my ashes scattered in Thame - in the river, the churchyard, at the grammar school, the cricket pitch, the bus stop at the town hall, the Six Bells car park, KingsClose, Wellington street - little piles of me all over the place. I hope that someone will do it for me.'

There you go. My letter for today. Job done - and there's the rub.

Not much to write home about is it? Particularly not to my home.