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I am home.

I write those words with no feeling of relief.

(I am tired and emotional.)

I loved being up at the Festival. Surrounded by people who place a high premium on passion, who don't demand explanations and insist on practicalities. At first I felt overwhelmed by my relative lack of success, but as I relaxed I began to feel inspired and buoyed by other people's drive to create and started to have a touch of faith in myself.

I boarded a train today at four o'clock this afternoon. Arrived home at about nine thirty.

During the journey I took out my notebook and wrote. Little scraps of poems, ideas of lyrics, disjointed lines of prose. I would write, then read for a bit. Stare out of the window for a while and then write a bit more.

Proudly wearing my re-found positivity like a shiny new pair of shoes I arrived home.

Within about half an hour it had gone. It had revealed itself to be just a piece of fickle nothingness, ready to be pierced by a single shard of negativity.

(Tired. Emotional. Did I mention?)

One argument, just a lack of understanding, and I rush to the computer with wet mascara picking out words of self-loathing on my cheeks.

Such a fucking drama queen.

Well I did have a wonderful time in Edinburgh. So many little wonderful times made one great big one.

Tomorrow I am going to Norfolk for the weekend to stay on a big farm and go to a party, so I can escape once again.

I am tired and emotional. I am going to bed.