There Is No Title

I was going to start this by apologising for not posting any entries for a week or so. Then I realised the comment would be addressed to my regular readers. And, of course, there aren't any. The only people who ever glance at this journal are those idly hitting the 'Next Blog' button, and they will only be scanning it to decide that theirs is much superior. Which, judging by my own research, it will be. The girl writing from Prince Edward Island, Canada, lost a lot of points by using a yellow font on a pink background, while this has a much classier template. But then she could offer in-depth reports on the state of the discos on Prince Edward Island, Canada. All I can manage is snide comments about stories I've read in The Guardian.

Or in this case, nothing. If I'd been a bit more organised I could have done a piece on Easter weekend. There would have been a hi-larious stint on the two dominant themes of Easter - chocolate and crucifixions - and how they might be combined. A little bit about staying the weekend with my grandad, who is not going quite as strong at 87 as we'd like him to be but still getting around quite well without a stick. And something on the dreadfulness of Luton, the town where he lives, and how he used to travel the world seeing beautiful sights and always had Luton waiting for him at the end of it all. But Easter is, as they say, so last week now. And I've nothing else to offer. So this has to be another blog entry about writing, or failing to write, a blog entry.

OK, I promise: In a day or so's time I'll try to get round to slagging off the Queen like any normal Englishman.