I’ve been in an irritable mood today. I’ve been irritated by things I read, things I saw and heard on the TV, and by the fact that people who usually talk to me haven’t. This is a shame because my neighbour has gone to spend a few days with his daughter, which means I can play my music as loud as I like. But I’m not in the mood.
I never tire of hearing Eva Cassidy’s version of Fields of Gold. It still tugs a bit.
I’ve fallen prey tonight to an old compulsion of mine – when it’s cold I get a strange urge to gorge on cheese and pickled onions. I indulge it, but only so far. I stop short of gorging. I’m in control. (yay)
Two people have given me Christmas gifts – Nigel’s wife and Fred’s daughter. This doesn’t happen.
Several people have levelled the imprecation ‘Scrooge!’ at me when I told them I generally ignore Christmas. They misunderstand. I’m no Scrooge. My reasons for disliking Christmas are many and varied, and built upon a lifetime of earnest consideration. Ebeneezer’s reasons were different.
I realised today that the classic Irish question ‘...but are you a Catholic Buddhist or a Protestant Buddhist?’ isn’t quite as illogical as it sounds.
The novelty of snow soon wears thin.
My beer is making me feel colder, but if I hurry through it I’ll start the scotch too early and drink too much. Who knows, somebody might want an answer to a post comment at three o’clock in the morning. Some hope!
There’s somebody I want to take to bed with me, to keep me warm through the long winter nights. Fortunately, she doesn’t know it. Women’s thighs have suddenly attained a level of almost unparalleled prominence on my list of things devoutly to be wish’d.
I’m bored. Anybody who says ‘only boring people get bored’ will be boiled in their own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through their heart.
The End.
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