The amount of cutlery I have in my room is staggering.

My notebook has not been completely silent lately, nor have I sworn off the late-night typing sessions, but still it has been nearly eleven months since I last posted a piece of writing.

While it is true that I have slowed the pace of my entire blog, the main reason for this remains that I cannot trust the Internet with my best work. My best work is always very much unfinished, and it would not do for another to steal my children away even before they are fully grown. (Which never actually happens.) I only ever post the bits and pieces here, the forgotten, the abandoned, the clutter in the corners of my hard drive.

If this seems a convenient excuse for poor quality, I must admit that my 'best work' is not much better. The difference is the amount of time I invest in finding slightly better words. (Blog posts are generally at the very opposite end of the language scale.)

I also have a paranoid fear of sharing anything current. The moment I show it to somebody, it becomes an established fact, a finished piece, carved in stone. Or so I seem to believe.

So much for that. I'm off to take a nap. Perhaps I'll come back soon and talk about my new books.

Why would you call this a 'cold'?