There are times when I wonder who writes some of my blog
posts. I swear it isn’t me. My fingers flick across the keyboard, and the next
thing I know is I’m asking ‘What the bloody hell does that mean?’ But I post it
anyway. Why not? The only difficulty arises when the occasional person comments
and effectively asks ‘What the bloody hell does that mean?’ Then I have to try
and work it out.
Some of my stories got written that way, so who is
responsible – really? Is it Griselda (who’s giving me one of her
I-know-things-you-don’t looks,) is it my favourite goddess, is it some little used part of my consciousness (maybe the part that whispers from behind veils
and hints that my connection with life is unbreakable, whatever I think of the
matter,) is it the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, even? I do hope to have one
more Christmas (metaphorically speaking, of course.)
I don’t know, but it does give me the useful defence of
disclaiming authorship. I can paraphrase poor old Ben and exclaim:
‘I didn’t see nuthin’. I don’t want to go to an asylum.’
Oh no?
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