Night and Day.

Tonight I had a yen to write myself as a character in a new short story. The words began to flow in my mind and they were good words, full of lyrical expression while telling the plain truth with all its downbeat connotations.

I decided against it because it seemed unforgivably self-indulgent and I felt it would be viewed by all as merely the sad ramblings of a sad old mind. And so I read some ancient correspondence with the woman who was the subject of my story The Seeing of Sheona McCormack. And then I read the story itself and was disturbed by how much editing it needed. And then I listened to Enya’s Caribbean Blue because it reminded me of how Sheona had provided me with probably the strangest night of my life. Hey ho…

Today was another woeful one. The trend continues. And tomorrow is a day to be dreaded, which is leading me to block any thoughts regarding what the following days might bring. I have no confidence, you see, in the likelihood of there being any following days. This is becoming a common condition.

It was very wet in Shire and town alike today. No dogs, horses or donkeys came forth to greet me, nor any people for that matter. Although two middle aged women did irritate me with their unwonted and unwelcome closeness at the checkout in Sainsbury’s.

And now I realise that I found a way to give vent to the sad ramblings of a sad old mind after all. I think I might be a genius.