Grim out there today. But the forecast for fog didn’t happen. I reckon it formed in my mind instead. It’s foggy in the old upper management.

That’s because it’s Sunday. I woke up with a plan. But after chatting with Mary, the plan is less watertight. Ah well, let’s see how things play out. You’ve got to wing it now and then.

Right, the day is wearing on. Me and Mary are in the living room. She’s watching the television and I’m writing this. We’ve not done a lot. Although we did talk. And that’s important. We are planning a big move. From the Midlands to the Isle of Wight. That’s not down the road. It needs thinking about. So it’s good when we get chance to have a natter.

It’s funny. I used to treat the weekends like a time where I had to do things. Get out running. Go out taking photos. Long walks, all that. Now? A nice sit down with a mug of coffee and a device to write with suits me.

It’s a thing about ageing. I reckon your priorities start shifting. As long as me and Mary are doing alright, that’s a win. Waking up in the morning is a win. I don’t mean to be melodramatic but I’m sixty one. Life is rolling on. I’m not planning on snuffing it any time soon. But who knows?

Writing-wise, I’ve had a crisis today. I write horror stories now. Might even try a novel soon. And I write them like I’ve written this.

This morning? Because I’ve freed up my andyhawthorne.uk domain, I got an idea. Write Douglas Adams adjacent blogposts for a laugh. Like I used to try doing.

Straight away, I hit the same wall. Having to check my notes to check what prose technique to use. Instead of writing in a stream of consciousness, my usual technique, the Adam-ish stuff is hard. Write a hundred words, delete fifty. Try again.

Nightmare.

Why? Douglas, bless him, was nothing like me. He was a well-travelled academic with BBC script-writing experience. Me? I’m an ex-army working class lad from Coventry. Why would I reckon I could get close to matching the skill in his prose? Bigger question: why would I want to?

I’m me. I don’t need to wear someone’s jacket to write. My own, that old Berghaus fleece jacket, it fits well, keeps me warm and has good deep pockets. That’ll do me. Leave Douglas on my bookshelf where I can love reading his books. Have a laugh, all that.

But when I write? It’s me. That’ll do.

I write in a lean prose style.