Yesterday was good and different and good (did I say good already?). I got up early (okay, not so good) for a Saturday, and headed off down to some Prep School near Abingdon, where the band was holding a Playing Day. Under the baton of Philip Burditt (our regular conductor) and John Morgan (a previous conductor of the band), we played through new pieces, and workshopped our skills. It was good.

It did however mean that the greater part of Saturday was taken up doing other things, and therefore unavailable for writing. Last night I watched a very funny film, Calendar Girls, before going off to bed, and cozying up out of the cold. And it was quite, quite cold. Sometime during the early hours I had a really quite bizarre dream, involving much chasing around a room that seemed to be a cross between a toy store, an airport baggage reclaim, and baggage check-in. There seemed to be some problem with my bags, which meant they had to be rescanned. I then woke up. The sun was shining, and the bedroom, and the shelves of books opposite were lit in the most fantastic light, and I was warm and cozy and it was quite blissful…

…I thought, this is perfect: the perfect mood and atmosphere to very productive. Productiivity, it seems, doesn’t work like that. I’ve faffed around with website design, with record digitisation, with walks (okay that I was very nice, if cold, in the woods), and watched Smallville. Why does it take until 10 o’clock at night, and the onset of bedtime (and worse, bedtime on a ‘school night’?!!) before the creative part of my brain kicks in…?

Why oh why os why…?