The Writer - A Blog Again

The sun was out for a change. Still a bit chilly though. Not time to take the hoodie off yet. The need for a brew was strong. He’d have to fight it. Because a brew would no doubt lead to a biscuit. And that would lead to more bulge around his middle. 

He looked at the screen. Glowering at him, it was. Like it was saying “Yeah? What yer got, then?” But if he wrote anything it would sneer and say, “That’s shite.” He’d have to stop avoiding the topic, though. The same thought had been milling around for a while. 

A blog. 

Yeah. Get one again. No, tried it before. More shouting into the void. Like the books. Fuck that. Soul destroying. All that effort. No readers. Or maybe two. Mary and a bot called Kevin. But still…

He sighed. He’d have to stop doing that. He was risking sounding like a moaning old git. A more careful stranding up meant he was ready. Fuck it, brew time. Off he went to the kitchen. Ignoring the creaking noises from his knees. 

Mary was there. 

—Alright, Love? 

—Yeah. 

—Have you done it, then? Made the new blog?

—Er, no. 

—Why? I thought that’s what you went up to do? 

—Yep, it was.

—Oh. 

She smiled that “Bloody get it done, then” smile that she’d had to perfect with him over the years. 

—Cup of tea, Mary? 

—Ah yes, please I’ve got time before I have to go. 

—Coming up. 

—When you’ve got your brew, get your blog done, yeah? 

—I will. 

—I like reading it. 

—Do yer? 

—Yeah, I show people at work an’ all. 

—Ah, I didn’t know that. 

—Yeah, so send me the link when yer have it. 

—Right, I will. 

He made the brew. But how was he going to handle this? He wanted to go straight up and get the blog started. But he should sit with Mary while they drank their brews. 

—Ta, right, off you go then.

—How d’yer mean? 

Mary rolled her eyes like she was speaking with someone a bit slow on the uptake. Then he realised she was. 

—The blog, yer numpty. Go and get it done. 

—Ah, right, okay love, I will. 

—Good. Send me the link. 

—Will do. 

Andy creaked his way back up the stairs. It took skill not to spill any brew. Back in the man cave, he sat at his desk. Flexed his aching fingers. 

—Right, yer bugger, blog or bust, he muttered.