Take a deep breath

     Why is it that inspiration often comes just after you've lowered your body into a bathtub full of soothingly warm, lightly scented water? You soak in the water, mulling ideas (is that like mulling wine?) and desperately repeating key words that will help recall of the original idea. When you finally get to that special  writing space where the chair is comfortable, desk and notebook sloped at just the write angle and with your favourite pen in hand after having dried off, brushed your teeth, dressed, rescued slippers from the dog ; the words are gone and the idea has drifted into the ether . . .

     Same thing happens when driving. Pull over and stop to make a note? Not on your Nellie. Now where does that expression come from? Had a teacher who had a giddy aunt. And my uncle's name was Bill.

     Cats do some silly things. I just went down to the Post Office to pick up mail. A cat dashed across from the far side of the road in front of me; stopped on the edge of  the verge; saw me then dashed back the way it had come in front of me again and the traffic coming from the other direction.

     Caught up with some of my Radio 4 listening this morning. Open Book  invited ten writers to choose books they thought deserved rescuing from neglect. Listeners will later choose the one they would like to hear adapted for radio. In next week's programme Howard Jacobson will give his reasons for choosing Samual Johnson's Rasselas which I know should be on my shelves somewhere. The Snow Goose is Michael Morpurgo's choice.

     Think I'll take an inspiring bath now. Typing gets in the way, too. F'rinstance it's taken me the best part of an hour to dash off this post.