So why start a blog? I have failed signally at keeping diaries in the past, and enough of yer workaday problems I translate into writing of one form or another.
Weeeell, I think it's partly the discipline of the thing. I don't expect to have this read at all except by the occasional far flung friend or utterly random person. I can't quite remember who it was (but I think it was Raymond Queneau) who wrote something about the conscious mind being taken up with tasks and letting the subconscious have it's head. Maybe that's the point of this whole thing, let the subconscious have it's head. It'll probably be infrequent, but then again I may become obsessed by the whole idea and post to it voraciously. One can never tell.
I appear to have moved into the pub. Now, I don't wish to give the impression that this has come as a complete surprise to me, we'be been planning to do so since shortly after I bought it, but still, it's sort of snuck up on me and now I'm waking up and thinking what happened? How come I'm here? The reason for this discombobulation is that this move was initially a temporary measure. Mrs Coastalblog had some relatives coming to stay, and it made sense to put them up in our house while we decamped to the flat. It's still a work in progress, but a mad week of cleaning and carting stuff around made it habitable. I had a suspicion that once we were in we'd be back and forth for a few weeks. As with many of my hunches, I was completely and utterly wrong. As it turned out, once we were here, we were here. Things moved at pace and, now our kitchen appliances have been installed, there's no going back, the old house is unusable. It's left me with slightly mi
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