(Somebody told me today that I’m depressed, but that was
because she didn’t understand what I was saying. People often don’t. And
actually I wasn’t. I was just fed up, which isn’t the same thing.)
Anyway, tonight I was thinking about the Dark Rider again –
a frequent preoccupation these days – and was going to make a joke about the
Lone Stranger and Toto. I decided that:
a. It was too deep and enigmatic.
b. You’d have to be ancient to get it.
c. It was crap anyway.
So I didn’t bother.
And then I started to write a spoof version of my favoured
old ditty I Want to Go to Sleep Now,
but I had a bit of a toothache and fell three lines short. I might pick it up
again one day, but for now it’s confined ignominiously to a musty old drawer.
Much like me.
At the moment I’m listening to the complete Boheme album by Deep Forest
on YouTube, which is rather splendid. And I’ve suddenly started sneezing a lot.
And none of this matters at all. The real reason for making
the post is that tomorrow I’m expecting to get the letter calling me in for the
next operation and that will send my mood plummeting. After that I don’t know
when I’ll post again and I do so like to make the 30 mark by the end of the month.
Why on earth I should be concerned by something as pointless as a number is
something else I don’t understand.
There are no slugs in my kitchen tonight, which is unusual.
Chloe’s friend, Anna, has a remarkably enlivening presence
(just in case Chloe stumbles across my blog while trying to find something
interesting to do in Vietnam.)
If anybody wants to meet me in Ashbourne tomorrow, feel
free. Hang around Costa Coffee; I’ll be there some time. And please ask them to
save me a cheese scone. They didn’t have any the last time I went in.
I think I might be finally turning into a bowl of trifle.
Night.
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