I’m feeling very sad today. I’m not sure what kind of sad it is. I have a free-floating kind of sad that comes and goes without any reason and usually means I just need to eat and sleep and be on my own and stop working and talking for a day. That’s the usual sad. So usual it’s almost like a friend and usually I am well in charge of that kind of sad. I know not to try chatting or doing the telephone or meeting people I don’t know. This is not that kind of sad. It feels like empty hands and an empty mouth, or realising you’ve forgotten what you’re looking for when you’re in the middle of turning the house upside down, or driving past a place or smelling a smell that triggers a feeling without a memory attached to it. Like being hungry, or the nagging feeling that when you go to bed you’ve forgotten to make the pack-lunches or count out the dinner money or put petrol, no DIESEL in the car. Something out of place and not there. Like when I moved house, but my old house was on the same street at the new house, but the other side, which meant when I walked up the stairs to go to bed I always turned left, which used to be right, but now I had to turn right and it is the mirror image and you bump your nose (that one is in the Annie book too). Like rooting about for the nice smell and the warm bit in the bed. This kind of sad is the kind that lets me know there is something missing and usually it makes me want to do writing, to invent the thing that isn’t there, to make it up, to find out what it is that I’m remembering without seeing. Oh dear. Looks like it’s time for the Ravensglass novel. But not until after Whitby and a decent rest. My wrists are in agony with all the writing I’ve been doing, I don’t reckon I could start again so soon.