Already this blog seems to have strayed from the original purpose, improving my writing. So new plan, 500 words a day, either fiction or blog or both.

Blogging seems like such an easy way to get writing, but every time I begin to write a post about me, I get a feeling, right at the base of my skull, an itch, that  seems to say, ‘What one earth can be interesting about today? About me?’

So, do I pick one moment and write about that?

About how I noticed an old man on the tube the other day (Friday), an old man with a neatly trimmed goatee and heavily lined face who as he sat would twist and watch for empty seats and then with a smile and a wave of his hand usher people to the free seats? Interesting? Hmm.

Or the cyclist I saw (Sunday) by Regents Park. Fifty years old probably, Lycra cycle clothes and a dusky blue road bike. And clip in peddles. Definitely clip ins because just as he got to a t-junction, cycling up past the queued traffic, he drew level with a taxi, and the taxi door was flung open. He fell heavily on to his left side with a cry. A crowd gathered and the cyclist sat in the middle of them holding his left arm and glowering at the man who’d exited the taxi. The man’s eyes were wide and the little girl he was holding, hoisted up by his chest, was crying. He apologised and apologised and apologised. Hurt, anger, resentment. Drama.

Or do I talk about the grand arch of the day? The air this morning was cold, the afternoon warm, the evening cool. Coffee at my desk, meal deal at my desk, banana at my desk. At night I watch television and wait for 10.30 so that I can go to sleep and forget the day, seven hours of dreams.

I feel like Sisyphus.

Na, not really.

Kind of.

So, is this blog, or fiction, or both?

What else happened? Well, it’s not day’s end yet, maybe something is still to come. 354 words down, this is harder than I thought.

363. 364. 365. 366.

I’ll write the other 134 words later.

374. 375.

. . .


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