I’ve got that ‘night before’ feeling tonight. You know, the
one you get when you have to go to bed knowing that when you wake up you have
to do something you really don’t want to do. Imagine what it must have been
like for those condemned to be burned to death on the morrow. Did they sleep?
I could do with a really, really nice e-mail before I go to
bed. I don’t get many really, really nice e-mails.
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I feel terribly attached to somebody, and it doesn’t make
any sense at all. I suppose that sort of thing rarely does.
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Tonight’s walk was singularly uneventful. No fresh blooms
strewn across Mill Lane, no
renditions of Raglan Road, no new
lighting displays. One of the local owls was being unusually vocal, and there
was another, unidentified sound that caused me to think of An American Werewolf in London.
I do that sort of thing when it's very dark and I'm alone.
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The supermarket had a special offer on Bell’s
whisky today – two litre bottles for £26. That’s cheap. And I also discovered that extra thick double cream was also
on a special, which made it cheaper than ordinary double cream and with a
longer use-by date. (This is to have with my Christmas pudding, you understand,
and is therefore not insignificant.)
Odd, isn’t it? There you are experiencing constant
existential crises, suffering fears, anxieties and confusion, singing sad songs
at the drop of a hat in inappropriate places, and hoping against hope for a
really, really nice e-mail, and still you get excited about the price of double
cream.
Depending on how you look at her, life can be either a very
beautiful woman or a bag of boundless mystery. Or both.
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Going to bed now. I might or might not be in a better mood
tomorrow night.
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