Fresh Out of Words.

It’s becoming more and more difficult to write blog posts as we get deeper into the Coronavirus crisis. I’m thoroughly tired of talking about the crisis itself, Trump continues to irritate me but I’ve become used to that, my old friend the llama is conspicuous by his absence, I’m not moving among people and their dogs so there’s nothing to observe on that front, I’m missing my Costa ladies but there’s no more to be said on that issue, the weather has turned dull and much colder so there’s no sitting in the garden with a cold beer at the moment, no lovely ladies have appeared at the bottom of my garden to ask ‘How are you, Jeff? I’ve been worried about you’, and I still can’t perambulate the lanes, woods and footpaths so there are no spring-in-the-Shire posts to be made.

So what should I talk about? Me? Not much to say about me either, except that I’m faring as well as a person might expect in the circumstances. My ex, Mel, has serious difficulties and worries both in terms of her own welfare and the health of a close family member, so I won’t be seeing her for a while and she can no longer do my shopping. (And there’s not much I can do about it except sympathise and wish her well.) Meanwhile, the occasionally-mentioned Woman from the Walsage is proving a gem with the getting in of supplies. To put it simply, therefore, I have nothing much to complain about, but nothing much to write about either. Sorry.

If I do think of something to say, I’ll try my best to commit it to the blog before I forget what it was.