Losing It.

I think I’m losing the blogging knack. I was just reading another old post of mine (only because somebody from Russia had just read it and I wondered why.) It was about Prince Sidhistra and his dog getting into heaven.

‘That’s a nice story, isn’t it?’ I wrote. ‘I would shed a tear if only I could find a hand to squeeze.’

See? Classic, twinkle-in-the-eye stuff. You’ve no idea what lay behind that little line, and neither have I because I can’t remember. It wasn’t as simple as it sounds, though. Never is.

These days I seem to spend rather too much time drooling over Elisabeth Pawelke, which really won’t do because I doubt that dear Lisa would take kindly to being drooled over. She’s the one making eyes at the German bloke with the deep voice in that video I posted.

‘You’re a cad and a bounder, sir. Get thee hence to the eastern front and returneth not ’til thy poncy shirt be mud-spattered and tattered, and thy lederhosen be firmly frozen.’

So there you go. Even the ditties are coming out as prose.