Not Worth a Title.

To paraphrase Admiral Beatty:

There seems to be something wrong with my bloody blog today.

It’s all rain, rabbits, rambles and inconsequential rants. No raw angst, no railing against real injustice, no rear end philosophy.

That’s OK. I’m not complaining. I’m not. Don’t want to tempt fate, do we?

One interesting observation, though. I’ve noticed lately that I look older when I get up than when I go to bed. That’s odd, isn’t it? And as good a reason as any for being content with sleeping alone. An even better one is the fact that a woman would have to be very damn special to share my bed, far too special to regard me with anything more than disdain. And that would be on a good day. There's only one I want anyway, and she isn't available. Make that two. Er... three.

Ha. Had you going there, didn't I? Back to one.

Damn! I’m doing the woman thing again. It’s the alcohol, you know. Every glass is full of floating, faceless, female forms. The eyes are the only recognisable feature, and they’re enigmatic.