A spark in the ashes?

AT LEAST, whilst we’ve had some dry weather, I’ve managed to power-wash part of the yard.

And just as I’m contemplating getting the garden furniture out of storage, the forecast is turning into something less settled.

Still, the garden does need a good drink of rain.

Anyhow, I’m pleased it’s the weekend again – for on Saturday we have the leisure to do a roast, a chicken today from our favourite butcher, and Sunday is a general catch-up day for the household chores.

Meanwhile, I’ve been toying with the idea of maybe trying to write a short story for this year’s Bridport literary competition.

I get an entry form from them every year – I suppose because I won a prize there once, about ten thousand years ago.

Mostly I put the form on my desk and forget about it until after the closing date; for some reason, this year, it caught me just as I was looking at one of my old, unfinished efforts, and I half wonder if I should have a bash at pulling something together.

Thing is, about this writing lark, I’ve long since lost the need, or the hunger I used to have. I don’t even really need the money these days.

Maybe there is still a bit of an itch there, though, a tiny spark amongst the ashes of my literary ambition.

And, to be honest, I’m not sure whether to try to fan it into life or stamp it out altogether.

Do I really want to go back to all that effort and disappointment?

Not sure. Probably not. But I’m not sure.