Melancholy Matters.

I’ve just been reading some of my old posts which I made last year. It’s about the only way I can keep in touch with my blog at the moment and the dear old blog is so important to me. Presently I can’t hope to reach the upper echelons of mediocrity which was my stock in trade until only a few short weeks ago, since my gumboots are now trapped too firmly in the quagmire of anxiety.

Actually, some of my efforts weren’t so mediocre. One of them even made me smile when I was reminded that the odd bit of dry, oblique humour occasionally found its way onto the page. Of all forms of humour, I think I like the dry, oblique sort most of all.

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The inclement weather made Ashbourne a miserable place to be today. Anyone familiar with the closing passages of Tennyson’s Idylls of the King will know exactly what I mean, and Tennyson described the whole miserable matter far better than I ever could. (Then again, Tennyson wasn’t – as far as I know – much given to dry, oblique humour, so maybe I might bask in the shadow of his presence after all.)

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I’m nervous about going to sleep tomorrow night because when I next regain consciousness it will be Friday, and we all know what’s happening on Friday, don’t we? Some people have wished me luck and some people haven’t.

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I made a comment on a YouTube video last night, and within minutes was accused of being a troll by a troll who evidently doesn’t know what a troll is.