I didn't get around to blogging yesterday because my Number One Son has just come home from Chicago for a weeklong visit. When he came dragging in here early yesterday morning I mothered him with a hearty breakfast (ham and eggs with mushrooms and Swiss cheese; and as if that weren't enough, we sent Number Two Son out for doughnuts). Then we consumed not one, but two pots of Earl Grey tea as we sat at the kitchen table for a good three hours discussing Life, the Universe, and Everything.
It was a wonderful morning, but it threw my schedule off for the whole day, and as I had to do some serious writing (as opposed to the "play" writing I do here) I wasn't online much at all yesterday. So here I am this morning, back in the saddle, looking with dismay at a huge mountain of e-mail that must somehow be climbed over or tunnelled through. And then there's the blog to be updated.
I toyed with the idea of not blogging for two days in a row, but I couldn't bring myself to do it because if I slow down, I'm afraid I'll quit. (I still can't believe I've posted entries nearly every day since Christmas.) But finding time to blog is only half of the battle; I must find something to blog about. (Yes, these posts are generally, although not today, about something.) So as usual, I've just glanced through a dozen other blogs and news reports, waiting for inspiration to strike.
It didn't. Or if it did, it missed me by a mile. After checking out the headlines and then reading about what Terry did last night and what Samuel Pepys did on this day in 1661, I'm not inspired, I'm tired. Would anyone mind if I just went back to bed for a while?
The thing about blogging is that you pretty much have to do it every day. If you don't, your audience will wander off and very soon the only person reading will be your favorite sister. (Not that I don't appreciate it, Skeezicks.) So what I need for busy weeks like this one is some kind of -- well, a placeholder.
A guest blogger.
Terry's far too busy and Samuel is dead, so I'm thinking about offering the job to Number One Son. He's penniless and he has no pride, so I bet I could buy him with a steak dinner and a nice-but-not-expensive pinot noir.