The old black dog has me pinned well into a corner at the
moment. I don’t think I’ve ever known him be quite this aggressive. It seems a
lot of it has to do with a growing sense that everything within and without me
is reaching its end, but whether that’s the cause or merely a symptom is
difficult to say. I could list them but lack the mental energy.
* * *
Today’s one bit of light relief is the matter of Mr Prigozhin and the plane crash. The BBC news is full of it at the moment, and the general tone of the reaction is based on the presumption that Mr Putin has had his revenge. It surprises me a little that no one is offering the equally plausible possibility – that the Prig, being a fairly resourceful and very rich gentleman, has taken steps to fake his own death and is now on his way to a plastic surgeon with a Mongolian passport and identity papers settled securely about his person. Maybe we shall never know. (I wonder whether the Russians have a man in Ulaan Baatar.)
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