September 15th

At last, I`ve cracked it. I have tried for three days to get into this blog to write the second entry and here it is. The only problem is that no one else will be able to find it either, so I am just writing this into the ether. In the midst of a busy weekend, as the Meeting House was open to the public for National Heritage Weekend, I wrote a poem about death and dying for my writing group but it is not sad, just annoyed. I heard on the radio this morning that Andrew Motion , the poet laureate, often finds it difficult to get started on a poem, so he takes a Lemsip which reminds him of feeling ill which is when he writes his best stuff. So I feel quite proud that I was able to write something in between serving cups of earl grey and scones to the punters wandering round the building pursued by eager Quakers. I am sitting in my sunny kitchen with the cat beside me with his face pressed up against the aga, but I am just about to go out in the garden and tidy up m,y vegetable patch as the tomatoes have all withered up in the night. I have never been any good at tomatoes.