On Influence and Frustration.

Today was unremarkable in precisely the way that yesterday wasn’t. No being plugged into a machine like a poor Borg infantryman, no feeling more than a little discomfited by a doctor insinuating with some conviction that I might meet my end any second if I didn’t submit to immediate hospital incarceration, no nightmare drive into the lure of a blinding light through rain of apocalyptic intensity. In fact, as Albert was wont to remark upon seeing the sea languidly lapping the Blackpool sands, nothing to laugh at all. Today was a languid, lapping sort of day.

I just asked myself why I’m writing this in the way that I am. Blame Shirley Jackson. I just ordered another of her novels. (Her biography was far too expensive.)

And consider it fortunate that I cast aside the intention to write about the definition of ‘misogyny’ and the related conniving, childish opportunism displayed by dim-witted politicians from all three major British parties (on the one hand), and the thrill of seeing two aircraft which might have been WWII fighter planes flying in formation (of sorts) over my house on the other. I decided they were both just too tedious.

I might mention, however, that I’m getting a lot of internet dropouts at the moment. The last time it happened, my ISP pushed me through such an idiotically inflexible process that I gave up in the end and declined further attention. The problem righted itself eventually. If I should be offered the same process again I will decline immediately, since why suffer the frustration when you can give up at the beginning instead of the end and save yourself the trouble? Such would seem to be a good tactic for getting through the business of living these days. And I do appear to be much inclined to decline things at the moment.

And I’m scheduled to have two plumbers coming to my house tomorrow to rectify a couple of problems. I’ll believe it if it happens, but I’ll do my best to be polite to them anyway.