The Wicked Month

Dear Diary,

I'll start with another Irish blessing for you.

God bless the corners of this house,
And be the lintel blest,
And bless the hearth and bless the board,
And bless each place of rest,
And bless each door that opens wide
To stranger as to kin,
And bless each crystal window pane
That lets the starlight in,
And bless the rooftree overhead
And every sturdy wall.
The peace of man, the peace of God,
The peace of love on all.




It is August, the wicked month, according to my so-much-loved Irish writer. Edna O’Brien. I wish I could write like her.

The weather is certainly leaning towards the wicked side, so very dull and rainy again. We have just returned from visiting my stepson and his family, we had such a wonderful time in Norfolk, a county I had never visited before. The sun shone the whole time, in fact to employ a cliché it was a real scorcher. What a treat for we summer-starved folk and the new sun-hat got a lot of use. My step grandchildren, H aged 15 and O aged 12, are two very special and beautiful people and I miss them (and also their parents D and K of course). We had a lot of laughs, lots of good food and drink and very pleasant outings.

So I will tuck in my Blessings here before I go on.

My lovely step family.

Memories and laughter. Moments to treasure amongst the company of those we love, especially if they live far away.

Sunshine (of course).

Journeys to new places.

My Angel divination cards that always resonate with what is called for.

Scented candles and new shoes/clothes/hats/

Treats, rest and good food. Alcohol!

A little Good News that I cannot yet reveal.

Returning Home and seeing the animals especially dear old Finn.


But now I am back to work and back to blogging.

I have a couple of MeMes lurking in the notebook so I will inflict them on you. One comes via Lane and is called

I Write I Don’t Write.

If you are reading this then why not do your own version?


This is mine:


I write because I have to.

I write in bed.

I write at dawn.

I write in the mists of sleep

I write in the middle of the night,

in the dark

and my pencil makes squiggles that I hope to be able to read in the morning. Too often the words next day are illegible or just some kind of gobbledy-gook, ideas that in the night seemed to be some kind of inspired genius and in the morning present themselves as the ramblings of a madwoman.

I write all day in my head.

I write in a flash of inspiration.

I don’t write for you,
I write for me.

I write for you,
I don’t write for me

For whom do I write?

I do write if there is a deadline.
I don’t write to order.

I do write by hand with pen and paper.
I don’t write on the computer.

I write letters in my head.

I do write in a notebook whose cover has to be colourfully pleasing to my eye and I have a collection of these waiting to be filled, all picked up as ‘bargains’ in my travels.

I do write on little scraps of paper because I can never find said notebooks when ideas come to me while doing chores/moodling/listening to Radio 4 or music.

I don’t write often enough when I am out on walks with the dogs because I nearly always forget my wee ‘walking’ notebook.

Ditto in the car.

I don’t write In the shower because I can’t can I? Too wet. It is however the place where I get so many ideas that come in a flash. From where do they come? I think it is something to do with the running water and its elemental energies being associated with ‘feelings and inspiration’.

I don’t write when hot/cold/ tired/ angry/ headachey/ ill/ busy/hungry/in company.

I don’t write on workadays.

I do (always) write when angry and the need to communicate my feelings is intense.

I write for enjoyment, especially this blog.

I write for therapy.

I write rather than speak.

I write my life.



THE END.


This blog is To Be Continued.

A visit to the shops is called for and much as I want to write, the fridge is empty.

I guess I don’t write when the fridge is empty.

The next MeMe is

I am from,

so watch this space……



Bye for now,
Cait.