It is one of those bright but cool April days that triggers nostalgia for the first sitting outside the pav with a can of cider, resolutely ignoring the fact that the grass is damp and it is a lot colder than it looks.

Work is picking up. New people who know what they are doing and who like the job make a big difference as does others leaving shattering cliques. It makes it feel more like I'm getting something out for what I put in. Fewer sticky plasters, more strong foundations. Hope returns, even ambition. Or maybe that is down to the sunshine too.

I've eaten nothing but junk food this week. There's a decomposing bag of salad greens in my fridge which I think I'm best leaving there unopened until bin day. I shall have to try again next week.

I have vague intentions of finding 2,000 words for the writing challenge. The damn leprechauns are a put-off though. When I was little, the local cinema had six stained and peeling posters along the walls, one of which was Darby O'Gill and the Little People. It always worried me a bit for some reason I could never quite express and never would have tried to explain to an adult.

Re-reading Jon Courtney Grimwood's Ashraf Bey novels. His scene setting is so good, I can almost taste the air. Reading something that good also damps my enthusiasm for writing. It also makes me read slower as I don't want the books to end.

Weekend approaches, with beer, fish and chips and good company.