Right now I'm supposed to be writing a review, of the brilliant Sam Amidon. In less than an hour, I have to collect the smalls from nursery. A copy of the new tune-yards album is glaring at me from the wreckage of my desk. Downstairs there is a pile of fabric waiting to be cut and patterns clamouring to be corrected. The laundry is spilling out of the basket. Emails are jostling for attention. I don't know what I'm cooking for dinner tonight. Big things, small things. Outside the sun is shining, it's one of those achingly beautiful spring days, when London beams, when the back streets are full of magnolias and the scent of mock orange, when you convince yourself that you won't see another grey sky until October, even as that infernal pessimist in your head grumbles that this is probably the only summer we'll get and you ought to make the most of it and not trap yourself behind the computer another moment longer. Reasons for writing a blog, right now, don't seem especially compelling. The days grow longer, time feels shorter. And here I am. The name, incidentally, came from this song by the Chills:
Silence boiling over, indeed.
