Rambles After Dark.

All day today I kept having the urge to write a post about the totalitarian nature of the liberal alter-Establishment. But that was earlier. When night falls my serious side tends to evaporate like mist on a summer morning, and instead my mind rises to the level of apathy, silliness, and the making of mountains from matters of minor consequence. And so the post about the totalitarian nature of the liberal alter-Establishment slipped to the bottom drawer and might be resurrected one day, or then again it might not.

And then there was another serious matter knocking on my brain and saying ‘write me’, but I beg to be excused from writing that one because I can’t remember what it was. So what should I write about instead?

Don’t know. Let’s see…

I encountered a few seconds of Strictly Come Dancing tonight while flicking through the TV channels and realised just how much I hate glitz. I had a work colleague once who was big into modernist design and architecture, and he told me that the word ‘fancy’ was probably the word he hated most in the English language. I suppose my dislike of glitz falls into a similar cradle. I really do find glitz vexatious to the spirit, you know. I do. I’m more inclined to favour elegance, style and subtlety. So there: that makes a bit of a mound from a matter of minor consequence.

So what’s next?

I decided that I should make myself a rule: never reveal the existence of your blog to somebody you know personally because it could have deleterious consequences. The person will come to know all sorts of things about you which they never suspected, and then they might never speak to you again. They might give you the cold shoulder when passing you in the street. They might decline to allow their dogs to make friends with you. They might come around to your house late at night and push frog spawn through your letterbox. They might even distribute rumours of such a calumnious nature that passions will become dangerously inflamed and you will be chased to the burning mill with pitchforks.

I made that mistake today, and I think it an undoubted certainty that I shall never hear the words ‘have this one on me’ again.

And now I’m empty of inspiration so I’m going to wash my dishes. Dinner tonight consisted of chips, a green salad, a portion of potato salad, and a piece of bread and butter. And then I had a strange concoction that came in a small plastic pot from Tesco (73p on the clearout shelf because it was on its Use By date.) It was labelled ‘strawberry sundae’, but I’m curious to know what else it contained because it had a strange and not entirely wholesome taste. At the time I suspected that it might have been adulterated with something scraped from the musty floor covering of a house of ill repute, but it probably wasn’t. I expect it was just some junk food manufacturer’s idea of a joke. Such is life now that we’re leaving the EU, even though there aren’t very many people left who still want us to.

(Sorry I lapsed into serious mode at the end.)