Copping Out.

I had two serious posts to make today but I didn’t make them because I’m tired of making serious posts about ultimately mundane matters. And besides, I did spend time this afternoon writing a letter to a national company berating them for joining forces with the dark side. That was quite enough serious effort for one day.

Instead, I’ll recount the two interesting things which happened over the past week.

For the first time in several years I saw a thrush standing on yon bush, but to those cognisant with the old Irish folk song, I’m sorry to report that she didn’t regale me with a rendition of The Jug o’ Punch. She simply stood her ground and watched me as I walked past and greeted her cordially.

I got called ‘sweetheart’ three times by the young(ish) woman manager in Uttoxeter Poundland yesterday. I assumed she was the manager because she had the air of somebody who is in charge and knows it – a sort of Buffy with a North Staffordshire accent and without the $1000 hairstyle. I suspect the familiar conviviality of her greeting might have had something to do with the fact that I was buying a pack of cranberries.

No doubt this post will appear as pointless and unintelligible as many of them are these days. I’m still waiting for my brain to stop languishing in bed because it can’t tolerate the thought of another day struggling to function in the world beyond the walls. While it’s in such a state of abject torpor, I prefer the term ‘idiosyncratic.’

And incidentally, on the subject of bed, my dream last night was about preparing to travel to America with a woman who died twenty two years ago. I had no idea why, but then I had to inform her that I needed to cancel the arrangement because my passport had expired (which it has), and because I doubted my heart would stand the rigours of flying (the last time I took a flight to America I almost passed out because the angle of ascent on takeoff was very nearly vertical.) The dream ended before she showed any discernable response.