"I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand"

   Other than hanging out with F list tv broadcasters (srsly when I saw my family today everyone was asking “did Alan Partridge actually say you were nicer than his wife?!") this week I also went down to the coast to visit my granny. 
   We went to Arundel and trawled about the antique shops where I found a genuine 1940s red dress that was so beautiful and why am I not rich?
   I also bought three books I have been meaning to read for ages, went to the beach, laughed a lot with my cousins and step siblings and played cards.
   But above all things I find I tend to reflect a lot on my work at my granny’s place. Idk if it’s the pictures of the pope staring me down, triggering an innate catholic guilt that has been genetically built into me or what but I find I reflect on my practise a lot. 
   When I was younger when I visited my granny’s, the space away from the Internet, television and my friends often left me with an uncorrupted open imagination, which often triggered my writing and opened up my brain. 
   This time I find that is not happening so much. But it’s that notion that interests me. An idea usually springs into my head from a tiny fleeting thought, and then I am left with a story, a narrative. So where is my one this time?