Alan Cohen, in a laser guided e-probe, points out that Fripp's guide to lazy diarists is inconsistent with the aphorism "If we have nothing to say, better to say nothing".
He is right, and this explains my absence from these pages for over a month.
But then, perhaps the weather is not "nothing". The English have made simple conversations about the weather into an artform. In my walk from my studio, all of three hundred yards along the street, to chez la Vicarage, I can expect at least two and sometimes as many as four or five brief exchanges about the weather. "Sweet nothings", perhaps, or part of the invisible glue that binds a village together, while also keeping each person apart. What else can strangers discuss without (and this would be a cardinal sin) becoming "intimate".
So there we have it. Today's dollop of nothingness.
"Silence is a distant echo of the approach of the Muse."
