Writer's block is the worst. It's worse than dried Weetabix on a high chair. It's worse than negotiating leather car seats in hot weather. It's worse than a bad night's sleep. Really. It's a whole new level of frustration. It's a bit like knowing that all the chocolate biscuits and Sauvingnon Blanc in the world is lying behind a locked door and you just can't reach the key. I'm currently suffering from the 'block' and when you run a blog, that kind of sucks. I started to wonder why the block-fog had descened on my otherwise chatty creative cortex. Is it because I'm tired? No. I'm a momma. I'm ALWAYS tired. Is it because my husband is home and I'm spending less time thinking about things to write about because, well not to put too finer a point on it, I could be having a shag instead? Maybe. Or is it because actually, for some reason, things have suddenly got a lot easier and that doesn't make great reading for a blog that's all about not being smug?

I mean the last thing you want to read is: 'Holy sleeping balls...I haven't had a broken night in three months. My husband is currently home so I'm only having to do half the work. We're having loads of sex and look!!! It's hot and sunny and we're spending all day in the garden splashing around in water and crunching around in sandpits.' That is kind of what's happening now which is great for my emotional wellbeing but shit for my creativity.

I'm starting to think that the old adage is true: you have to suffer for your art. The thing is, it's hard to be funny about the good stuff. Our British sensibilities mean that we almost delight in the struggle. We love nothing more than a good romping story through a series of comical disasters - the 'can it get any worse' kind of thing. We're much more comfortable couching ourselves in self-deprecation; we find self-appreciation a very prickly garment to wear.

So, in light of this, I can only apologise for my current state of calm and contentment. I can only ask you to wait a little longer. My husband leaves again tomorrow at which point I'll be flung into a panic as I manage my busiest working month of the year as a single parent with no family nearby...at which point the acerbic floodgates will open wide and we'll be back on track.

Until then...mother well and prosper.