It's difficult to describe the deeply blue feeling a damp Monday in Cambridge casts upon the thinking bit in one's head (the 'old lemon' as P. G. Woodhouse would call it). This sums up today's efforts:
Thought – to call it by a prouder name than it deserved – had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it, until – you know the little tug – the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of ones line: and then the cautious hauling of it in and the cafeful laying out of it out?
Alas, laid out on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked: the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating. Virginia Woolf, A room of one's own
