Small Talk.

I’m in one of those moods again tonight. Too few people talking to me (er... Christine doesn’t count,) too many minor physical ailments, too few positive distractions, too many misty atmospheres in the dream department, too many empty boxes. So, a little small talk will have to do.

Cassie, the lurcher/Bedlington cross at the village pub, is utterly devoid of road sense. I often see her standing in the middle of the lane outside the pub, quite unconcerned about the big SUVs having to slow down and inch their way around her. And she’s easily the moodiest dog I’ve ever known. Two days ago she hung her head and refused to come near me. Today she was a model of gleeful attention. I wonder whether dogs can be bipolar.

One of the problems of being a confirmed optimist is that it makes the letting go of delusions very difficult. Or maybe that’s just a symptom of arrested development.

I hope I don’t bump into Christine again for a while. I think I could cope with one encounter about every six months.

I wonder whether Sarah is still speaking to me.

I found a tip on the internet that works. Green tomatoes left on the vine beyond the end of the season can be ripened by putting them into a container with a ripe banana. I proved it today. Now I have too many tomatoes.

One of the riskiest things you can do in this life is ask a question. I learned that the hard way.

We’re having an unusually mild November, by and large. There are still a few summer flowers in the garden and I even saw a butterfly a few days ago.

I wonder whether everybody else is as weird as me, but just don’t talk about it as much. This could be part of a big post.

‘Please don’t go away’ has joined ‘Yes,yes, you may’ in my little box of treasures. It’s staying there, whatever happens. Life hands you the odd jewel now and then.

OK, enough small talk. I’m bored.