I woke for a pee and that was the word that my brain wanted to remember from my dream. Career-y. Someone was speaking, in my dream, to a man, I think he was called Mike, about taking a work path, that was ‘career-y’. But, I wanted to interject, he’s too old now, this Mike, to be thinking about careers. Too old. Are we ever too old? David Whyte, the poet and ornithologist talks about growing younger towards death. He, my love, took early retirement at fifty-eight. I am nearly that yet I cannot think of retirement, at least not from my real work. That will go on and on. The other stuff, well, yes, that would be good to bring to a close but I like to earn my way, so not yet. I try to work out why I a feeling so anxious. It’s in my back again, tight as guitar string. Like he described my pulse. Tight. Is it the prospect of writing about the performance? I think so. Write it. Just write it. Keep it simple. Rachmaninov stopped composing all together when one of his early works was badly slated by the critics. For three years he wrote nothing. Three years. Apparently, or so the presenter on Classic FM informed us, it was his hypnotherapist who got him back on track. You’ve got to believe in yourself, said the writer Marlon James on Desert Island Discs yesterday. His first novel, a Booker Man Prize winner, was rejected seventy-eight times. Remember seventy-eight people can be wrong, James said.

I walked with music today. Lovely. Music and a little Proust. I keep in on shuffle. I like the mystery. Waiting to see what comes on. Coffee, shopping then home to work. To write. To make right.