I’ve been trying valiantly to think of a suitable subject
for a blog post tonight. It’s now 1.30 am
and I think it’s time I gave up. The problem seems to be that I’ve gone all woolly
minded, I have no focus, and I think the cause of my dilemma is the moving in
of my new neighbour. It isn’t so much the fact that she’s here, more the being
offered such profound ice breakers as:
‘The weather’s turned out nice, hasn’t it?’ ‘Is it OK if I
park the trailer where I’m blocking your car in?’ and ‘What day do the bins get
collected?’
All perfectly reasonable, of course; it’s me who’s weird.
Small talk means making an effort, and that makes my brain woolly.
The one thing of note that’s come out of today is the
noticing of different qualities of squeak. My bottle of 10-year-old Jura malt
has a tight-fitting cork stopper, not the screw on top that standard blends
have. When the stopper is removed, the squeak makes a sound that can only be
described as ‘agonised.’ When it’s replaced, however, the squeak is eminently more
wholesome and optimistic.
There. That was interesting, wasn’t it? Time for bed.
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