It’s been a bit of a miserable few weeks for me, which is why the blogging’s been kept to a minimum. There have been a few personal issues I’ve had to deal with, the least serious of which have been HOURS of phone calls to people who supply broadband (or don’t, as the case may be or, well, WAS), and having a recurrence of the cellulitis (and, yes, I am sick of typing that) which seems to pop back to bugger me up every few months. So, yes. Not a particularly happy time for me.

But things are on the mend. Which is fortunate. And, as often happens in times like these, you end up coming out of them a little wiser, and knowing yourself better. I’ve learned things, which is good. I’ve learned that I can cope with things better than I thought I could. I’ve learned that I do need people, that support is incredibly important, and that it can come in many different forms – but that, while it’s great, it’s not essential. I’ve realised I should probably make more of an effort to do more things and to try to, publicly, be a bit happier.

And I’ve learned that, above all else, I’m a writer. And writer’s write. It’s what we do. And while other things may well get in the way, I don’t think writing and me could ever really be apart for long. And that’s, mostly, a very good thing indeed.