[Pause for dramatic effect]

There now fol­lows an impromptu address to the massed ranks of wit­nesses to the unre­li­able. Please do not whis­per, fid­get or pick your nose whilst I’m speaking.

In truth, I hate entries like this. They’re the worst refuge of the self-important blog­ger. “Look at me!” they cry, whilst act­ing delib­er­ately self-effacing and sternly instruct­ing every­one to look away.

Be that as it may, I think this entry is more a form of home-produced Cog­nit­ive Beha­vi­oural Ther­apy for myself, in order to stop my itchy fin­gers feel­ing the pull of the empty white space on the ‘Add New Post’ screen, or suc­cumb­ing to the irres­ist­ible lure of the ‘Pub­lish’ button.

So. An Unre­li­able Wit­ness is tak­ing a long walk off a short pier. Though most def­in­itely not a con­clus­ive one, I hasten to add. I’ll be tak­ing a life­belt with me. I thought I might just drift around the coast­line for a while, rather like a con­fused whale that’s taken a wrong turn­ing out of the ocean because they want to see what life is like over there where the bright lights are shin­ing in the dark. Whilst I’m aim­lessly drift­ing, I will be con­sid­er­ing a few small but not insig­ni­fic­ant mat­ters like how to find gain­ful employ­ment that doesn’t make me want to eat my own brain cells with a long-handled spoon on a daily basis. Like whether I am still enjoy­ing this thing we call writ­ing, whether it’s really for me, whether I can still do it, and whether I even have any half-original ideas or words left in my echo­ing head. I might also spend some time pack­aging up and return­ing the vari­ous boiled bun­nies I’ve received in the mail over recent months to their respect­ive senders. I’m sure that it will all be very self-absorbed and navel-gazing — fas­cin­at­ing only to myself — and in fair­ness I really don’t see why any of you should have to suf­fer it.

In the mean­time, you’ll still be able to find me spew­ing vari­ous web flot­sam on my tumblr, ‘edit­ing’ (in a man­ner of speak­ing) and put­ting some fant­astic work by other people on Writers’ Bloc, as well as occa­sion­ally exer­cising my poetic muscles on PIFFLE. There’s also the archives of this very site. Over there. If you want. Though I wouldn’t, if I were you.

Back soon. Ish.