Can blogging still be found in my bones? Does it still fizz in my blood? Can I pick up the threads and earn back the readers who have (quite understandably) wiped me from their "roles of honour?" I don't know.

I'm dipping my oh so tentative toe back into it. Why? I don't know. At least I can write rubbish, write cold. Only Google searchers will stumble upon this entry, this test, this, attempt to see if I still want to do it. To see If I can still feel the same satisfying surge of fulfillment.

Liberating in a way. The freedom to write without readers. Yet at the same time write with the necessary tighter focus, the required greater care; as if there were. As if there might be. The opportunity to lurch clumsily towards a style before being found or refound.