It’s 27th May here in dear old Blighty, and 27th
May shall henceforth be know as Black Monday in this household. Well, it would
be if only the days and their respective dates didn’t keep changing every year.
Next year it will be Black Tuesday. ('Oh no it won’t,' I hear you shriek in
glee, 'because next year will be a leap year. It will have to be Black
Wednesday.' OK, you got me. Seems to me that whoever set up the western calendar
must have been high on some concoction derived from a plant root found only in
a 10ft square patch of unhallowed ground somewhere in the vicinity of the
headwaters of the Orinoco, but I expect he’s
dead now so there’s nothing we can do about it.)
But I digress. It’s 27th May and I don’t like it.
I suspect it even had something to do with the infernal racket rolling up the
hill from the lower levels of the Shire last night, suffocating the kind of magic
which only a mild and moth-laden spring evening can convey. But I suppose
everyone is entitled to their choice of noise (or so I’m told.) And I suppose those
of us with more refined sensibilities just have to put up with being forced
against our will to listen to it. And since I also suspect that it was
contrived to accompany a double celebration, I further suppose that the weight of
evidence was on their side for once.
(This could so easily go into the post about living in the
groove. It’s been rolling around my mind for some time now, but I won’t force
that one on you. For now.)
And you haven’t a clue what I’m talking about, have you?
Just as well. What value do I have left if I can’t be enigmatic while the world
fades? And who knows, maybe the Dark Rider will take pity on me and offer me a
pillion position before Black Wednesday stuffs my head with sawdust.
* * *
We lost Masters in tonight’s episode of House. That’s a shame; I liked Masters. I think I was supposed to.
No comments:
Post a Comment