Woke up with a head full of things to do: a house to clean and a wash to be put on; emails to send and an accountant to ring; a last look at a class handout. Does it do the job?
And then I remember that I've left a small stone unwritten. And I knew what I was going to write about too.
I had made notes in my very beautiful William Morris notebook about city streets at night when the puddles on the pavement dance with the lights from the queues of cars driving out of town. I was going to write about the darkness hiding last summer's fly blown dirt clinging to the windows of the pub at the corner and the feeble wreath of Christmas lights that still straddle the windows. And I was going to find a metaphor to somehow convey how I felt looking through the window and seeing that, although all the lights were on and there was an empty glass on the bar, no one was inside and it looked as though no one was coming...
And it would have been good too. If I had found that metaphor and if I had remembered to write it down.