Saturday, 26 August 2017

Dolorous Day.

What a post it might have been. A poignant post, a post adorned with poetry, a post about remorseful days which arrive armed with buckets of pig swill to throw in your face.

But some things are better left unsaid because you never know who might be listening. And the poetry was poor anyway. And pig swill washes off eventually, although the smell has a tendency to linger.

But what do you do when you feel a pressing need to explain to somebody the nature of your severe disquiet, but don’t want them to know that they are the root of it?

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