Return of a Feckless Bastard

There is no excuse.  Christmas just came and went and then work started piling up.  In February, I went skiing and now I realise that I’ve not posted anything for ages.  Actually, that’s not true.  I realised some time ago that I hadn’t posted but in that curious way that people deal with issues, I sort of ignored the fact, despite having made a vow that I would post at least every week.  I fooled myself that I instead of posting my usual modest thought for the week, I would astound my readers with something truly earth-shattering for my “comeback piece” that would cause instant waves of forgiveness and, yes, relief to extend in my direction and wash away the stain of my lethargy.  But as each day passed, so I needed to come up with something even better as a sop for my fecklessness.  Quite soon, nothing seemed important enough to qualify.  It even crossed my mind to make up something to account for my absence but nothing short of abduction by aliens who turn out to be on the payroll of News International seemed to be enough.  So I have been reduced to this.

I have been working hard, though.  I mean, anyone who frequents any of the writers’ sites will testify - I haven’t been hanging around those places, either and that really is the only real time-waster to which I’m prepared to admit.  No, every hour at the computer has been taken up with my new story, The Rothko Room. It’s going quite well – much in the same way that an aircraft plummeting from the sky can be said to be approaching the ground quite well: tolerably quickly but with no evident appearance of anyone being in control. 

And there: I just made the excuse.  Only it’s not an excuse.  It’s a reason, certainly but the reason for the act does not, of necessity, excuse it.

So there is a reason why I haven’t posted.  Whether or not it’s a sufficient reason to excuse the fact, only my readers can decide.  If I still have any.