Our own private Glastonbury

I am losing sight, again, of what this blog is to be. In part, I write it so that my friends far away can keep abreast of my (and especially Maya’s) developments. Conversely, I write this journal as a personal diary: an aide-memoir.

There is an unpleasant after-taste of egoism about a personal blog. My own assumption that anybody would want to read about my life carries with it an implication that I believe my life to in some way to be more interesting than the reader’s own. Look at me! Look at me!

I know that my daily routines would offer little entertainment, and no amount of pathos to the average reader. I can only continue to document happenings, however small, in the hope that in amongst the chaff, there will be wheat.

I sit at a keyboard, encouraged by my recent weekend by the sea. I try to write down all the exciting things that have happened to me. My descriptive powers have left me. I am left with a list:

Doctor who
Left at 11
Arrived, tide in. Walk along rocks.
Maya slept at tent
Walk to pub, back along beach
Woke late
Walk along beach to Jenny Brown’s point, then up through woods
Lunch at Wolf gallery – Maya and chickens
Pack up + drive to Arnside
Train to Grange
Ducks, old people at bandstand
Walk back
Drink, then fish and chips
Drive home listening to DX7

As I say; an aide-memoire at it’s least.