Tedium.

Currently beset by the dreaded ennui. Nothing to do, nothing to write about, and nothing to look forward to save a growing catalogue of things to be anxious about. I made another virtuous attempt to come to terms with the writing of George Eliot but continued to find it tedious. When she’s observing the quirks of human nature she can be most readable, but the seemingly endless, sluggish flow of trivial conversation in dialect threatens to send me to a premature sleep every time. Trivial conversation is no less trivial for being 160 years old whatever the academics say.

The birthday passed off largely without incident. I received one card and a box of Taylor’s Hot Lava Java coffee bags. The weather was dull and wet as usual.

But I did discover a few interesting things about Karen Carpenter, like the fact that she was a highly rated drummer and that if she were still alive she would turn 70 next March. It occurred to me that there is a perverse blessing in dying young because it means that nobody will ever see any photographs of you looking old.

If this isn't a reason to get drunk I don't know what it is, but I have to be up with the alarm in the morning to face one of the things to be anxious about.