Wednesday's Losses.

The conviction is growing in me that those rare few who command my approbation and whose presence I welcome into my orbit are avoiding me like something the ship rats might convey to an unsuspecting public, while those I find highly objectionable are doing their level best to invade my private space and imbue it with an unwholesome smell. It’s my latest psychological foible.

Ashbourne today was depressingly devoid of dark blue VW Golfs, delightful dogs who wanted to make my acquaintance, and cheese scones.

But at least I received a small missive from the priestess on my return. I couldn’t have been more pleased if I’d been cast into the depths of a farmyard midden and come up smelling of stale turnips and pig manure. I said as much in my reply. Life is good when it gives you words to say.

Today’s great sadness is the fact that I wrote my first ever piece of fan fiction in my head this afternoon. It wasn’t bad, but I’ve forgotten nearly all of it now. It consisted of a conversation taking place between Ronald and Hermione Weasly while perusing the sunset from the remote South Seas island on which they’ve been marooned. The only line I remember is:

‘We haven’t even had sex for five years. Does that bother you?’

‘No.’

The rest was better, but alas…