Waaah!

Some time ago, I was whining about the prolonged absence of my poetic muse (if you're wondering, it later sent me a postcard from Rio, declaring it intended to stay there for the foreseeable and advising me to put my iambs firmly on the back burner). Though slightly irksome, an inability to poeticise is not a disaster for me, as I've come to see myself as more of a prosey type anyway.
And this is where I begin to panic. I have an essay due in on Friday, and no inspiration - and, apparently, no inclination - to write it. I find the subject (Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard) entertaining, and I know that there is a wealth of incisive and learned points to be made, but when I sit down to type I find myself a slave to the urge to displace. I can only hope that a sense of mounting panic will do something. Soon.
And now, instead of skiving on my blog, I suppose I must mix my metaphors, pull my socks up, and get my bandwagon rolling.