Oooh, Blogging.

Why am I not writing? Or, specifically, why am I not blogging more? Why not flood these pages with all the little details and incidents of my life?

Well, largely because I don't do very much and my life is currently luxuriously easy and therefore devoid of interest. I can't really bring myself to describe how lovely the weather is or how much improving reading I have undertaken. It is not, I am not, blog-worthy.

But there have been things that I have nearly written. I drafted something about the Chilean Miners' rescue for example, and I was temporarily inspired by the death of Dame Joan Sutherland and by the US school systems' notions of patriotism - but no postings will come, I promise. Why not? Because I dursn't. I have a deep-seated horror at the thought of causing offence and little confidence that a clumsy rant (inevitably directed, largely, at people I love and admire) could be justified.

In an email to a friend recently I was very rude about the extreme right-wing of American politics (the Republican party they're called). "You should blog that," he said. I don't think I could. In private conversation I will often overstep the mark, especially amongst friends. But this is a public forum: I am basically standing in my garden and shouting things at passers-by. In itself, such activity might be enough to alarm those within ear-shot; I'm not going to compound the sin by being interesting.