The first of March, where has the year gone? As I get older the years seem to speed up, is this an affliction of ageing or the plight of a busy person? And although I also sleep much less than I ever did (and I have always been a bad sleeper anyway) I still don't seem to have enough hours in the day to do stuff that needs doing. This year I have written five new songs already - but when will I have time to record them? And more worryingly too, the postman left a 'you were out card' to say my new books are ready for picking up at the post office. I neither have time to pick them up, or indeed read the books I already have waiting - and don't start me on Kindle, its fatal, I even forget I have downloaded them. I am off to America in April and am determined not to travel with paper, but alas, I do want to read the new Ali Smith, Claire Fuller... and then there is the activity going on in this picture; writing and rewriting and writing and rewriting, time is such a fickle friend. I can't believe its March already. Thus, I am going to stop this blog, pick up the Martin and find a tune for the boy from Barcelona, who plays a broken-heart stringed mandolin.
The first of March, where has the year gone? As I get older the years seem to speed up, is this an affliction of ageing or the plight of a busy person? And although I also sleep much less than I ever did (and I have always been a bad sleeper anyway) I still don't seem to have enough hours in the day to do stuff that needs doing. This year I have written five new songs already - but when will I have time to record them? And more worryingly too, the postman left a 'you were out card' to say my new books are ready for picking up at the post office. I neither have time to pick them up, or indeed read the books I already have waiting - and don't start me on Kindle, its fatal, I even forget I have downloaded them. I am off to America in April and am determined not to travel with paper, but alas, I do want to read the new Ali Smith, Claire Fuller... and then there is the activity going on in this picture; writing and rewriting and writing and rewriting, time is such a fickle friend. I can't believe its March already. Thus, I am going to stop this blog, pick up the Martin and find a tune for the boy from Barcelona, who plays a broken-heart stringed mandolin.
