I commute up to London everyday. Which gives me time to read and time to write. I don't know whether it's because I'm older but I don't seem to sleep on trains the way I used to.

I've got two or three short stories on the go at the moment. They inch forward everyday; a changed word here, a scrubbed sentence there, a plot development sometimes. Mainly though I edit on trains. I leave inspiration for snatched moments, scribbled notes in forgotten pockets.

I've also started reading again. Just finished The Dubliners by Joyce and The Well Beloved by Hardy. For my recent birthday - thank you all for the cards and gifts - I got some notable short story writers. I'm at a stage where I think I have my own voice, but it's always useful to check back to see how others have done it, to see how they undermined or subverted conventions (or not).

So, I've finally got around to reading Charles Buchowski. I'm reading Hardy's short stories, and collections of shorter works by Balzac and Maupassant. I do it because I like them and get pleasure from them and, if an attractive lady, sat opposite me on the train, thinks I'm well read and interesting by my choice of reading material, who am I to disabuse her?

(Normandy brown cows, in orchards, eating buttercups and long grass before making camembert. Classic image. In the rain.)

Night