It's almost time. Not yet but it's coming. I have to go home tomorrow, and the tramlines are starting to fill. I haven't made a list all week, no noodges or nags or reminders of cheques to write, people to call, errands to run. I like that but I'm not so sure that it's a good thing. All those fiddlies anchor us (me) in reality. Oh, dear, block those metaphors! I'm ranging from street vehicles to ships, tramlines to anchors. Well, bear with me. Are you still there? These past few lines illustrate what I intended to say this morning, something about the pretension of a writer, that no good thought shall go unpublished. Blogs are a terrible indulgence and an irresistible temptation. I write, therefore I am. Stop it. Time enough tomorrow, when I go home. Right now I'm going to swim.