Hey, look, I’m sorry, o my readership, for the dilatory updates. I am. There are many reasons why I scarcely float anything remotely ducky here in the Mortal Bath of late. No home internet, working too much… and I was just saying to Mr Ward, of the superb Eb’s posterous, the other day how I sometimes feel like my blog, indeed, writerly mojo has been bottled and nabbed…

Then I think: the best bits, such as they are, tend to emerge on the page unbidden anyway, so I’m not going to force it. It’ll come when it’s ready, as Mao Zedong once shouted through the cubicle door. I feel as though I may at last be beginning to accept that just because one can say something about something – anything – it does not necessarily mean one has to.

And anyway, I ain’t complaining. It’s summer, which means when I do get to leave the office (as I do frequently, being an independent note taker about town), I get to indulge one of my favourite activities, which is snapping reflected glories such as this:

8 Canada Square: chosen for its auspicious numerological position in the pantheon of filthy lucre at Canary Wharf. 8 is also my lucky number, as it happens. [Insert own interpretative readings here… consider the 8 of Coins, The Sun reversed] Why! One might commence a blogworthy babble about ‘beliefs’ from such a prompt… but not today, for the sun shines and I feel favoured by fortune. And alliterative, which means it’s time to stop this bibble bobble and get on with some actual paid work.

“Tea break’s over, back on your heads!”