I wish that I was blogging from the balcony. Actually I wish I had a balcony from which to blog. I don’t, of course; Lancashire farmhouses weren’t exactly built with balconies in mind. But a man can dream, can’t he?

Actually, I did manage to do some writing on a balcony today. It was on the balcony at work; a small affair that is barely big enough for two people to stand on for any length of time, but just about big enough for one man to sit on the edge of and scribble a couple of hundred words in a reporter’s notebook whilst on his lunch break, which I did.

The couple of hundred words were for Bridport and were, I think, suitable dark, which I was starting to worry wasn’t going to happen. The story has rather stalled over the weekend because I’ve once again been suffering from a gluey head. It’s starting to clear up now (and I think that more than a small part of it had to do with the mardiness shown by most men with a cold) but it’s not completely gone. At least I get to sleep in a little tomorrow; no gym until I’m better is usually the best way to go.

It does highlight one of the upsides of my new job though: I don’t feel tempted to stay off work with the smallest of excuses: I’d much rather go in and do some work than stay home and do none, and the work that I do get done is by far and away the most satisfying I’ve done in the last year.

I should have Bridport finished by the end of the week and ready to send off by next Monday. I’ll put it up for you all to read (and critique horribly, of course) then.