On the Dreaded Dog and the Lady's Influence.

Well now, it's been thirteen days since I last made a post. The reason is simple enough: the old black dog has been making his presence felt most alarmingly for the past thirteen days, snarling and slavering and spreading darkness, decay, and the Red Death through waking and sleeping hours alike. Several times I thought of making a post on the two things currently bothering me about the decline of British culture – increasing state control over personal freedoms and the constant attempt to sanitise society beyond reasonable bounds – but the desire to communicate flies out of the window when the black dog wakes up.

But today was different; today, fate granted me another short interview with the Lady B and the littlest of the little princesses (who is utterly adorable, by the way.) And you know what the black dog did? He did what he always does when the Lady B is around – shuffled off and lay grovelling at her feet like a whimpering puppy who would be mortified at the merest thought of accidentally treading on a butterfly.

Or, to put it another way, the sun came out as it always did when the Lady B was within communicable distance. Or, just in case you haven’t got it yet, or have no truck with metaphors, my dolorous spirits always get a bit of a lift when fate grants me an audience with the said Lady.

So that’s why I wrote this. I might write something else tomorrow if the dog is either asleep or still whimpering. Then again…