Nothing really to write about. Nothing really. I could write about our shiny new house, with palatial style bathroom, I could write about my new job and all the questions of identity that little number throws up. I could write about elections, Obama and the joy of someone who is a little bit articulate becoming in charge of the good old U S of A. Or how he’s probably imperfect and flawed and it’s about time we were realistic about our leaders. I could write about how strange it is not to be doing full time Christian work anymore, I could write about my new obsession with Life on Mars. I could write about the endless wondering in my head trying to understand the space between the question and the answer, the questions of how on earth we can remain certain whilst retaining so much of the stuff we just don’t know. I could write about how awesome Martyn Joseph was last week, and the way music grabs your soul, squeezes it and leaves you always crying for more. I could write about my friends generosity to me whilst I have been unemployed. But you know what, I think I’ll go to bed instead. Nothing really to write about anyway…