What to blog about?
The cupboard is bare.
I look out of the window and, for the first time in weeks, it’s raining.
Good. The rain is badly needed. I should feel newly energized. Sadly, I don’t.
What to blog about?
There are ideas, some notes, a few headings, some half completed scribblings, but nothing that has any substance as yet. It’s there in my head, now it needs writing. Writing it is the hard part. Can non-writers suffer from writer’s block?
Summer is a slow time, the living may be easy, but the heat saps energy, thoughts run like treacle, sticky and viscous. All I want to do is sit in the shade and read.
I went to the village barbecue, hoping for some blogging material. After all, I am good at people-watching, people-dissecting. The barbecue is an annual event, run by the ladies who run all such activities, like coffee mornings, the Women’s Institute, the bring-and-buys, I’m sure you know the sort of thing I mean. On the face of it, the barbecue represents the perfect milking parlour but I came away with nothing.
Sure, Colonel Blimp was there, full of his glory years, still reliving the Empire; the Squire and his lady put in an appearance, smiling graciously, instantly surrounded by a fawning coterie; the local MP, a worthy man, no doubt meaning well, but a politician nevertheless and therefore happy to take from the poor to give to the rich, showed his face briefly.
The Church was represented too, several vicars, male and female, in dog collar and black or dusty grey garb, were huddled around the same table, occasionally rising to tend to a particular member of their flock.
The village idiot family was there, middle-aged children keeping close to Mum and Dad, enjoying the outing.
The village intelligentsia mingled nicely, dripping words of wisdom and allowing the run of the mill villagers the benefit of their superior intellect.
The artist colony flapped and gesticulated, laughed a lot and, having made sure that everybody had noticed their presence, made their prolonged exits.
In other words, everybody had fun, everybody was kind to everybody else and ate the burnt meats and bland salads with a good grace. Wine flowed, at £1.50 a glass an easy treat. The accordion lady played her instrument in the middle of it all.The evening was balmy, the gardens lovely and the surrounding fields a picture of bucolic innocence.
Yes, I came away with nothing. Singling out any particular grouping at this friendly, enjoyable event to use as blogging fodder would have been too unkind.
So, what to blog about?