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I am, or should be, rested. I wake late, stay curled in the bed warmth for as long as I desire – the first time this year – a luxury I am unwilling to forego. Outside it is cold, grey, drizzling.

Finally I rise, dress, walk out into the damp air, searching for signs of the season’s turning. But all I hear are tyres on wet tarmac, all I see is damped down colour: raincloud grey, pavement grey, suburban-front-door grey. I am tempted to shut myself away for another day, I am holding my body too tight, braced against the chill, against neuralgia pain, knotted muscles, migraine.

Can I find the unfolding, take myself to the memory of bluer skies, the distant scent of twilight lasting into night? Yesterday there were tulips at the market, still tightly closed. I seek out the crocuses, soft, delicate petals, purple with saffron stamens, quick to bow their heads. They are pushing through the earth in the park, in the cemetery, swathes of fleeting colour that is hard to catch head-on. Spring is here, in these glimpses and slow sips. Waiting to unfold.

I am imagining a land without flags.

I keep thinking – but you sow a seed – planting implies putting in place something that is already set and ready. Sowing feels more hopeful, more about chance, and no idea if the seed will take root. But a seed is potential, and I can plant a thought, an idea, which can also be seeded. So I have to find that seed, that grain, keep it warm, nurture it. The days still feel too dark, too cold for anything to grow right now, but germination is slow and maybe there is something stirring, even if it isn’t quite ready to come out into the light.

‘Oysters … and … and everything …!’ The Gastronomical Me, M.F.K.Fisher

Spent time writing about eating oysters, about the ritual of it and the horror of it. Spent longer looking for pearls. The pearls were elusive. So was the art work. The search became the art work… and the substitute for the art work … and everything.

Righting a wrong. Wronging the right – the right to write. To write a wrong. To right a write. To turn it all off (and back on again). To not turn it on. To sleep. To evade sleep. For sleep to evade me. Sleep is right. Sleep is writing. Sleep is walking. Was I sleep walking? Is this where it all started to go wrong?

Home is: where the heart is, where I come home to, where I close the door and don’t have to let the world in. Home is where the art is, where it is made, where it is packed away in boxes, where it sleeps. This is not an open house, I will not throw open the doors and let the world gaze on what is made here. Not yet. Maybe not at all. You’ll just have to take my word for it when I tell you: today I made art from home, at home, by home; if home is where the art is, home is where it stays.