Becoming the Ancient Mariner.

I’m going to quote Coleridge again: 

 

Day after day

Day after day

We struck nor breath nor motion

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean

 

That’s a pretty apt description of me sitting in my office these dark winter nights. Trying to think of something to write to the blog. Trying to think of something to investigate via Wiki. Asking whether I dare risk another visit to the BBC News website, or whether its woeful content will grab me as a terrier grabs a rat.

Checking the stats to see whether Chrome with Linux is still feeding ravenously on my old posts. Watching the monitor screen for the email which never arrives. Wondering whether there is any point in being alive apart from the simple fact of having grown used to it. Is that enough? I suppose it probably is.

I used to be in the habit of taking night walks during the winter, but I’ve lost my taste for the cold and the darkness and the shining dots adorning the bowl of night. And I lack the energy, both mental and physical. And Mill Lane is no longer a fit place to disturb the residents with a rendition of Raglan Road. And there’s no longer a coal fire to greet me on my return because I decided some years ago that the meagre benefit no longer justified the expense.

The house is growing a little colder as each day passes, and I’ve started the habit of donning a woolly hat when I need to go upstairs to the frigid bathroom. It helps a little and maybe I’ll get used to it. It occurs to me that I might consider shooting the next wood pigeon I see and hanging it around my neck by way of penance.

Please excuse the joke in bad taste.