A strange thing happened a few days ago. I lost my reading glasses, somewhere in the house. Extensive searches have failed to reveal them - I even went through the rubbish and recycling bins but they have disappeared. I suppose these things happen to everyone (if they don't I'd probably rather not know) but one effect has been that I haven't written anything but this post for some days. My varifocals are out of date and I depend on those reading glasses for looking at the screen.

A new pair have been ordered and will be here next week - but I've had an unexpected break from writing. I have found other things to do with the time, and I've realised just how much time writing takes up. It isn't just the actual typing time - it's the hours you spend thinking about what you wrote yesterday and what you might write tomorrow. Eventually, inevitably, one ends by asking the question - is it worth it?

The answer, as usual, is - it depends. But it depends on what? I'm going to use the next few writing-free days to think about that.

Meanwhile, outside there is beautiful autumn sunshine at half past eight in the morning. The wild swans have arrived on the flooded washes and at night I can hear them as I lie in bed. They have come from Iceland and Siberia to this mild, moist corner of England. They live for many years and travel unimaginable distances in their lifetimes, have close family ties and are loyal to both nesting and wintering sites. And, as far as we know, they never ask themselves whether it's all worth it.