Easylife

My wife brought home a free copy of some scurrilous rag or another from the supermarket yesterday and I was just about to head towards the bin with what I believed contained nothing of any value to me, when I discovered how wrong I can be*. As I lifted the recycle bin lid, what should flutter to the ground but the ‘easylife’ brochure; a full colour extravaganza filled with everything you had absolutely no idea you always needed. Let me guide you through a little…

My attention was first drawn to a pomegranate concoction accompanied by the most startling diagram of male genitalia I have ever seen. If mine looked like that, I don’t think that even I would want to touch it, even though, as the ‘blurb’ accompanying it claims, it could lead me to ‘a regained sex life’. Looking again at the illustration, that would almost certainly not be with another human being. Apparently ‘a number of men’ have already been helped by it. Sadly, I will retain my un-enhanced life for now as well as bits and bobs that do not look as if they’ve been run over by an articulated truck.

I could not resist the lure of life enhancement for long, however, when on the very next page I encounter the buckle-less belts that will not only revolutionise my trouser wearing, but also lead to a ‘slimmer, trimmer silhouette into the bargain’. I could not be more excited if they promised to keep my trousers up too. Also, on the adjacent page I find an amazing device that will cut out 98% of the sun’s harmful UV rays and ‘protects your hair and its colour from fading’. It looks a great deal like an umbrella and, as a special bonus, I find that it is indeed rain-proof and able to ‘shrug off summer showers’. I can’t help but wonder why nobody has thought of it before.

The same must be said for the aerosol spray on the next page that will, it says, repair leaks and make watertight within seconds. It is, according to the magazine, ‘endorsed by DIY enthusiasts’ and will, in addition to pipes, windows and gutters, also repair roofs and windows: I am surprised that tradespeople across the country have not fought to keep this stuff off the market.

A scant turn of the page onwards and I encounter ‘the instant portable fence’ – a section of expanding trellis on legs. It can, it says, be used to keep pets in their place – although it does not say what stops them merely knocking it over or walking around it – and, even better, it can be used indoors or out and, let’s face it, who doesn’t want a section of trellis fence in the house. Even better, you would be able to position the fence whilst wearing the ‘shoes so comfortable they could be slippers’ which are also suitable for indoor and outdoor wear and are, as far as I can tell, velour slippers. Be careful though, even in your sturdy, water-repellent soles, that you do not encounter the Stayaway Spike Repellent which promises to humanely keep your pets away from precious plants with ‘hundreds’ of 2cm spikes (the product description helpfully comes with a photograph of a dog staring forlornly at some distant plants) although not, I fear, the vet.

There are bras with front fastening, criss-cross fastening and no fastening; more therapeutic copper than you can shake a stick at, and more miracle ingredients than you’d find in an apothecary’s weekend bag. There is also a vacuum cleaner for removing the wax from your ears, plasters for skin-tags and a pair of gloves that, as far as I can make out, cure hand pain and fatigue by warming them up and, best of all, we have a ‘glowing solar owl’ that makes your garden a no-go area for pests, as it is a well known fact that all pests are afraid of owl-shaped light-bulbs.

I have barely scratched the surface of everything that is contained within here: I have not, for instance, even mentioned the professional way to clean you dentures, the portable door step, the diabetic socks, nor the self-cleaning toilet brush. Nor, indeed, the fact that, thank goodness, it is all printed on fully recyclable paper…

*I once believed that no president of the United States of America could possibly be insane. That’s how wrong I can be.

N.B. I have taken a short break from the Running Diary and The Writer’s Circle, both of which will return when I have regrouped.

Robot Readers

Like every other sane blogger, I never look in my Spam folder, but a sudden influx of comments this week prompted me to investigate. Most of them were the usual mixture of demi-literate prattle and fawning praise (I like those) and then came this one: “Next time I read a blog, Hopefully it doesn’t fail me just as much as this one. After all, I know it was my choice to read, but I actually believed you would have something interesting to talk about. All I hear is a bunch of whining about something that you could possibly fix if you were not too busy seeking attention,” and, well, apart from the very tenuous grasp on English grammar, you’ve got to admit that it does sound an awful lot like somebody who has actually read my blog. I was tempted to investigate further but, come on, I might be stupid, but I’m not completely mad. However, forgive my naivety, but I am at a loss to understand what this particular spammer wanted from me. Did he/she want an argument? Did they want me to challenge their point of view? (I am an honest man, I could never do that.) Perhaps they wanted me to congratulate them on their perspicacity. I suppose all they actually wanted was for me to click on their website, but what then I wonder? Do they take control of my blog? Do I become an unwitting agent of some hostile government agency bent on subverting the western world? (Well, good luck with that my dears, you could possibly mop up a couple of dozen dissenting voices at most if you manage to stick with me for a month or two.) Do they get to suck all of my genius out of it? Yup, you’ve seen the flaw there right…

…And then the thought struck me, ‘What if it isn’t spam? What if some poor soul has actually squandered five minutes of their life in really reading what I have to say and truly is dismayed at the loss? What if Askimet has wrongly identified them as spam? What if I owe them an apology? What if they could actually point me in the right direction to fix whatever it is that I’m doing ‘a bunch of whining about’? (Not easy, as everything I do seems to fall into that particular category.) Could I possibly contact them without making it seem as if I was seeking even more attention? (Does anybody actually write a blog without seeking attention?) If I’m honest, I am constantly dismayed when I read through my blog: it all appears to be so effortlessly crap, and yet it isn’t. I have to work at it. Perhaps they don’t realise that the stuff I’m doing the bunch of whining about is generally me. If they’d actually read my little weekly salmagundi of strife, they would surely know that. Unless, of course, it really is as bad as they say: that my carefully constructed and targeted barbs are actually little more than haphazardly collected words that, rather than pricking the balloons of pomposity at which I aim, in reality merely splat into them like a cow-pat through a sieve? What if they are not the joke? What if I am?…

…And then it occurred to me. I already know the answer to that. I have to look myself in the mirror every morning – no sane being could ever take that seriously. I gave up shaving because my face was so… unpredictable. I got really fed up of slicing chunks off it. This is not a face for the serious view. This is a face for the custard pie – even if I have to throw it myself. This is merely the face that some higher being saw fit to lash onto the front of a head that was used to house the brain that nobody else seemed to want. I always imagine somebody saying ‘Oh dear. We’d better give him a sense of humour: he’s going to need it.’ And a sense of humour I have: a very singular one. So singular that very often I am the only one that ever gets the joke.

Anyway, if you really are out there, whoever you are, and you have actually read my blog, then I can only suggest that you are merely one of the many who didn’t get the joke. You are not alone, although you could possibly occupy your time more productively by forming a club with all your fellow spammers, offering psychological advice to all we sad, damaged bloggers who cannot afford your membership fees. In the meantime, I shall continue to plough my lonely furrow – after all, I don’t have many gifts, so I have to push on with the one I do have, even if it’s whining – and hope that my attention seeking might draw something human this way…

The Running Man on a Return to Couch to 5k

I went for a slightly ‘troubled’ run at the end of last week whence I discovered that my lungs have not yet quite worked themselves back up to absorbing oxygen in the required manner and my hips are in desperate need of WD40, so it was decided that I need to reintroduce myself to the thrice weekly slog a little more gently. Consequently I reset ‘Couch to 5k’ and I intend to ‘redo’ the last few weeks of the regime until I get back up to speed. I have removed the ever-soothing tones of Jo Whiley and replaced them with the slightly more chiding contributions of Sarah Millican. The short ‘walking’ interludes (I have started at week 5 which sees me ending the week with a twenty minute run) are a little embarrassing, and always coincide with encounters with other runners, but do give me the opportunity to whip my ailing alveoli into accepting some suitable level of oxygen exchange before I lurch on again.

I have always ‘suffered with my chest’ but this is the first time I have really noticed how long it takes to build back up to normal function after it has divested itself of whatever it is it stores in there – although to be honest I have never been one to push my ability to breathe further than has seemed natural. In forty years of playing football, I seldom moved beyond canter, even at my fittest. I always managed to position myself alongside ‘willing runners’, affording myself the maximum opportunity to kick the opposition without having to chase them around too much first. I figured that, as breathing was the only thing actually keeping me alive, being out of breath was unlikely to ever be a good thing.

My legs, I have mentioned before, have something of the ‘tree trunk’ about them. They are ‘sturdy’ in the extreme and, I fear, not ideally suited to running – probably more designed for holding up a motorway bridge. My calf muscles alone must consume about fifty percent of the oxygen that I do manage to take on board. Moreover, when given the opportunity to utilise an amount of oxygen, they generally seem to enjoy it to such an extent that they continue to flap around all night. It is incredibly annoying (possibly more for my wife than myself) when my legs are still pounding the streets whilst the rest of me searches for sleep. I have tried so many ways of combating this: hot baths, cold baths, super-hydration (leading to super-micturition), standing, sitting, heating, cooling, beating with birch twigs, giving a stern talking-to, but to little avail. My legs have no speed control and whilst they are unhappy to lumber up to a pace that is anything in excess of brisk stroll, they are, having done so, generally unwilling to return to anything resembling inertia. If I do manage to tie the damn things down overnight, they repay me by aching and, occasionally, cramping up in such a manner that a blacksmith could use them as an anvil.

My hips are relative newcomers to this circle of pain, but boy are they making up for it now. I have developed a hip-flexing and stretching exercise routine which fits between my runs and my hips have been much better, but whilst I was not running, I was also not doing the in-between stuff. Hence my hips have become like rusted gate hinges and they make a similar noise when I walk. I desperately need to get them back into some kind of order so that I can get out of the car without groaning; so that I can bend over without next door’s cat thinking that somebody is shooting at it.

I’m hoping that my second lope through the latter stages of Couch to 5k will be somewhat easier than my first: I am somewhat more adjusted to the levels of discomfort and boredom, having developed the distraction techniques needed to cancel out both. I may stumble on through the schedule, to the end of week nine, or I may find that I am back up to speed (relative term*) before then and decide to drop back into the old routine. Either way, I am actually feeling keen to get back to my established routine of runs and exercise before winter descends.

Who’d have thought it?

*VERY relative term.

‘Couch to 5k’, started my running saga here.
Last week’s running diary ‘on Being Grandad’ is here.

Zoo #43 – Ptarmigan

A ptarmigan is a bigger partridge
(Though hunters use the same size cartridge)
A little larger than a grouse,
Substantially smaller than a house.
Its fate is often Christmas fare –
It tastes a little like a hare.
Ptarmigans come with a silent ‘P’,
Like toddlers swimming in the sea.

The Ptarmigan is classed as a ‘game bird’ e.g. it has obviously been placed on earth with the simple function of giving the ruling classes something to point their guns at when they’re not starting wars. It is the ultimate arrogance of man that everything else on this planet has been placed here solely for our benefit and such things that clearly do not fit this criteria, probably need to be eradicated. Weirdly, the creatures we protect the best are those that we eat.

N.B. the bird was originally known by its Gaelic name ‘Tàrmachan’ until a man called Robert Sibbald (Psibbald?) thought that it would look far more classy if it appeared to have a genus name of Greek origin, so he stuck a silent ‘p’ at the front. I’ve always been intrigued by silent letters. How did they get there? I know (that is, I have been told, and I am trusting enough to believe) that some of them were originally pronounced – e.g. both the ‘k’ and the ‘g’ in the word ‘knight’ were originally spoken – but I cannot begin to imagine how ‘igh’ ended up in so many words. Some kind of lexicographical aberration. I’m sure the Greeks would have a word for it…

My One and Only Piece about the Euros

You have to be honest: it is the grinding inevitability that is so galling. Our position as world-class gallant losers cemented once again. Oh well, if it’s going to take another fifty-five years until we do this all again, at least I won’t be here for it – although, if I am, I will just about have recovered. As a life-long football fan and lover of my country (although not always my countrymen) I should by now have grown used to this torture: that everything ends in disappointment sooner or later. Let’s be honest: we all knew that Italy were the better team, but we believed, really believed, that it didn’t matter. We had destiny on our side (not to mention Baddiel, Skinner and Neil Diamond). In actual fact, even if they’d have given additional marks for ‘Anthem Singing’ we’d have lost. Watching the Italian team sing their anthem is joyful. We Brits feel obliged to sing the anthem solemnly – loudly – but reverentially. Gusto is, I believe, an Italian word…

It has become a national trait: play brilliantly, get ahead, freeze with the realisation of what we have just done, die a little. Somehow English teams, in all sports, are viewed as arrogant, when what we are is, in fact, fragile. People of my age might remember the ‘mantles’ that used to be a necessary component of gas lights in caravans: they gave out a brilliant white light, until you touched them when they collapsed as though made out of talcum powder. English confidence is a brittle beast. It can’t help that we live on a tiny island of three nations, of which the other two despise us. Ask most Scots who they would want to win and they would answer ABE (Anyone But England). On Sunday, Scotland was populated by 5.5 million Italians. Our Welsh neighbours are similarly disposed towards us. The answers, I suppose, must lie in our history – shared, presumably with France, Germany and Ireland amongst a plethora of others – who would support the Invading Hordes of Betelgeuse if they were playing England. I’m sure we had a few of our American chums supporting us – although how many chose to watch a European competition shown, presumably (and if at all) in the middle of the night I cannot imagine. Also, I seem to remember reading that there are more Irish people in the US than in Ireland and those of Italian descent not far behind, so I’m guessing we probably didn’t feel the waves of support washing across the ocean anyway.

The problem is, we have a ‘history’ – seldom a good one – with most of the rest of the world, and history, it appears, is not easily forgiven. Imagine being beaten up in the school playground because of something your great, great, great, grandfather once did. Try to imagine how much weight an apology would carry: I apologise for the actions of all of my countrymen between 1558 and 1980. Here, have my Snickers Bar as reparation is not going to cut it, is it? It is a burden that all English people carry, and one that we cannot shed.

…And then I read that a number of the England players (You can guess which ones. I’ll give you a clue: they are not white-skinned.) have been subjected to all sorts of abhorrent abuse on social media since our loss – presumably from the people who are currently doing for the Flag of St George what they previously did for the Union Jack e.g. making it reviled throughout the world – and I think, you know what, I now get what the rest of the world sees in us. You’ve all seen these ‘people’ when they get caught (not often) and they appear gloating on the TV News: the boo’ers of ‘taking the knee’; the jeerers of other National Anthems; the denouncers of different; the haters; the flower of English manhood (and they always are men) huh? And I realise that this young, diverse and focussed group of football players, who made it all the way to the final and played brilliantly along the way, is something to really celebrate. They represent the England I want to be part of, and bugger the penalties…

The Writer’s Circle #26 – The New Skirt

Penny smoothed down the perceived creases in her neatly pleated skirt. She was certain that nobody had noticed, but it was new and just a very few centimetres shorter in length than those she habitually wore. She felt somehow empowered by it. She had caught a sideways glimpse of herself in the mirror in the Ladies and she thought that her legs were actually nothing like as ‘stringy’ as her mother always told her. She had seen worse, much worse, and although the skirt gave her a little difficulty in keeping her knees covered when she sat down, she was happy with the way she looked. She felt suddenly hot and thought about opening the top button on her blouse. Just briefly. Steady now Penny, just one step at a time…

Shyly she looked around the Circle (all of whom had noted the new skirt) and almost sat straight down, but she caught sight of Deidre who was clearly ready to speak, and decided to press on. “I drew,” she said, “Family Saga, and I would be lying if I said that I really knew what that meant. First I thought ‘Gone with the Wind’ and then I thought of ‘The Waltons’, but I knew that I was only going to write a few hundred words, and ‘Saga’ didn’t really seem to apply. So, I hope that nobody minds, but I intend to take a bit of a liberty and take myself even further out of my comfort zone…”
“Oh God,” muttered Deidre, “What is it, a poem about cats?”
“…by writing this. I think you will all agree that it is not what I’m used to doing, but I listened to Frankie and he said that I needed to ‘lighten up’.” She looked to Frankie for support and he smiled warmly and nodded his approval. “I know what everybody thinks of me and, frankly, you’re not really wrong, so I tried to remember how I used to be; what I used to like and, somehow, for some reason, I came up with this and… well, Phil has agreed to help me ‘act’ it. I hope nobody minds…” She smiled at Phil who took his cue to stand, grasping a sheaf of papers in his hand. “We grabbed a few minutes ‘rehearsal’ before you all got here. I don’t know about Phil, but I have never acted before – not even in the school nativity – so please be patient. I will have to set the scene. It is an old-fashioned bookshop. Phil is the owner and I am the customer. I hope you will bear with me; I’m no actor and this is… well, I hope you will bear with me.” She and Phil moved into position, each grasping their script and a book in a bag.

PHIL                            Ah good morning madam. May I be of service?
PENNY                        Yes, it’s about this vegetarian cook book you sold me yesterday.
PHIL                            Yes madam.
PENNY REMOVES A VERY DOG-EARED COOK BOOK FROM THE BAG. PHIL LOOKS AT THE BOOK AND THEN ENQUIRINGLY PENNY.
PENNY                        It’s an ordinary cookbook with all the meat recipes torn out.
PHIL                            Your point being…?
PENNY                        Well, it’s not the same as a vegetarian cook book, is it?
PHIL                            I’m afraid you’ll have to help me there.
PENNY                        Well, a vegetarian cook book is a carefully selected and varied collection of non-meat recipes, whilst this…
PHIL                            Yes madam?
PENNY                        … this is a carnivorous jamboree with everything but the lentils ripped out of it.
PHIL                           (Under his breath) Not unlike the average vegetarian fruitcake’s diet, I’d say. Perhaps, madam, you could tell me exactly what it is you were expecting.
PENNY                        Well, I wanted a book of recipe ideas, especially designed for vegetarian consumption, which I could cook for my son’s non-meat eating girlfriend when she comes to stay at the weekend…
PHIL LOOKS POINTEDLY AT THE BOOK.
PENNY (cont)              … that doesn’t say ‘100 favourite meat recipes’ on the cover. I don’t think I’m going to get very far with a recipe for Steak & Kidney Pie with ‘Steak & Kidney’ Tipp-Exed out and the words ‘Some Vegetarian Rubbish’ written over it in biro. Nor, I think, will she find (SHE TURNS THE PAGE) and I quote ‘Beef Stroganoff with all the good bits picked out’ particularly to her taste.
PHIL                           Right, well, I’ll just throw this one away then shall I?
MELODRAMATICALLY, HE THROWS THE BOOK INTO THE BIN.
PHIL (cont)                  Another week’s profit down the drain.
PENNY                        Oh come on. It’s not the first time you’ve tried it on with me, is it?
PHIL                           What do you mean?
PENNY                        The whodunnit you sold me last week…
PHIL                           Yes?
PENNY                        2019’s ‘Wisden’ with the last page torn out… And what about the ‘Da Vinci Code’? Did you really think that I wouldn’t realise that it was just a remaindered travel book about Venice with half the words cut out and stuck back in at random?
PHIL                           Alright, what do you want?
PENNY                        Have you got the latest Jeffrey Archer?
PHIL REACHES INTO HIS BAG AND PULLS OUT A PRISTINE PAPERBACK.
PENNY                        Can you cut all the crap out for me?
WITH A WEARY SIGH PHIL TEARS OFF THE FRONT COVER AND PUTS JUST THAT IN THE BAG, WHICH HE HANDS TO PENNY. HE THROWS THE REST INTO THE BIN.
PENNY                        Thanks
SHE ‘EXITS’.

In the ensuing silence, both Phil and Penny retook their chairs. Penny looked down at her exposed knees and Phil cast his eyes slowly around the Circle. Frankie clapped. “Bravo,” he said, and he stood. Phil joined him, clapping loudly. One by one the rest of the Circle stood and joined in the applause with even the reluctant Deidre belatedly joining in. Penny, with half a smile, took a deep inward breath and slowly pulled down the hem on her skirt…

N.B. I’m sure that Crispin Underfelt has mentioned before the difficulty of getting sketches to format for WordPress. This is the best that I can muster. I hope that it is, at least, understandable.

The Writer’s Circle began here with ‘Penny’s Poem’.
Last week’s episode ‘Redemption (part two)’ is here.

A Time Limited Sketch – A Different Reason: A Friday Introduction

SCENE: INT. THE BANK. TWO RAIDERS CHARGE IN WAVING SHOTGUNS AROUND AND THREATENING THE STAFF, DEMANDING MONEY. UNFLUSTERED, THE CASHIER FINISHES HER COUNTING BEFORE LOOKING UP AT THE MEN. SLOWLY AND DELIBERATELY SHE TURNS HER EYES TOWARDS THE COVID NOTICE ON THE WALL STATING THAT MASKS MUST BE WORN. THE MEN SLOWLY FOLLOW HER STARE AND THEN, APOLOGISING PROFUSELY, SEARCH THROUGH THEIR POCKETS AND PULL BALAKLAVAS OVER THEIR HEADS. WITH A NOD OF THANKS THE CASHIER STARTS HANDING OVER THE CASH.

This sketch is something in the way of an excuse. It is obviously very close to its sell-by date, but I have to shamefacedly admit that I only thought of it today.

Anyway, what I really want to do is to introduce any of you who don’t know it to the blog ‘A Badly Chewed Pencil’ written by my very good friend, Mr Crispin Underfelt. Chris and I have a lifetime’s history. He makes me laugh all the time. I really think that more people should read his blog. If you like silly poems with a slightly dark edge, he is your man. If you want a comic saga, then ‘Thompson’s Lost Plimsoll’ is without peer. If you want a song lyric that you can hum your own tune to, Chris is unbeatable. If you want money, he’s not so good. I hope that this might take you back to his very first post – a perfect place to start – try it, you won’t be disappointed.

Pies – A Badly Chewed Pencil (wordpress.com)

The Running Man on Being Grandad

Wednesday was to be my first proper running day since I was first unwell – except it wasn’t. I have had a few sessions on the exercise bike and I no longer get out of breath hoisting myself into the saddle so the time felt right, but it is not. When I run, I run alone. I avoid other people as far as I possibly can and it has lately occurred to me that, should I keel over, I am many lifetimes away from a defibrillator. I am fully aware that the benefits of running far outweigh the risks, but you have to be honest, the benefits are not quite so… terminal. The pay-off of keeping fit may, if I am lucky, stretch twenty years into the future; the perils, if I am not, may stretch six feet into a box.

Exercise so far this week has consisted of being grandad. Of being used as a trampoline by two three-year olds and football/tennis/cricket opponent by a six year-old. I haven’t counted the baby, although God knows, the amount of walking up and down the room I do whilst holding her must count for something. Being grandad is much more fun than running, but twice as tiring. I have a ‘babysitting’ mode on my Fitbit that just says ‘Go and have a lie down’ every thirty minutes. I would like to introduce the physicist, searching for the secret to perpetual motion, to my grandson. Even when his body is stationary, his mind is moving at a frightening pace. He is capable of the kind of leaps of logic that would make Einstein blanch. You want to witness something moving faster than the speed of light, look inside his head whilst he’s sleeping. While the world slumbers, he hatches plans for rocket-powered shoes, upscaled building projects based on super-sized Lego and the possibility of growing chocolate from Smarties. An hour in his company is both life-enhancing and draining beyond belief. My spirits soar whilst my head throbs and my limbs ache.

I will not have run today either because I will have been at work and a day at work starts and ends with a long walk. When the sun shines, the morning walk is a golden thirty minutes, when it rains it is filled with the misery of knowing that I am going to be damp for the rest of the day. There is something about the water that runs down your back and into your pants that means that it can never dry – like badly stirred gloss paint on a plastic door. The journey back to the car on such a day, wet-panted, is never pleasant even if the sun shines. Steaming underwear is never comfortable.

Tomorrow, however, I am not at work. Tomorrow I will run. Next week’s running diary may well not be about running, but it will at least have its seeds in a run, and whether my pants are wet or dry and as long as I make it to the end without the attentions of the paramedics, you will hear all about it.

Ain’t life grand?

In an attempt to ‘glam up’ my content, I thought I’d try to post this piece with an intriguing title. I toyed with ‘Quantum Fluctuations of Time within the Somnambulant Cerebral Cortex’ but I was worried that someone might ask me to explain. I considered ‘The Mortal Coil: How to Shuffle Off – the Facts’ but I was held back by the fact that, by and large, these blogs are not, in fact, fact-heavy, but rather more fact-less. I then took a leaf from Bryntin’s book and went for ‘Easy Blogging Tips for Successful Lifestyle Investments’ but I feared litigation, so I went for the ‘what it says on the tin’ approach, which means that we can keep it to ourselves. Just the two of us…

The first running diary, ‘Couch to 5k’ is here.
Last week’s running diary ‘On What to Remember’ is here
The next Running Man post, ‘On a Return to Couch to 5k’ is here.

It’s the Not Knowing that Kills You

Last week was a particularly disappointing one for my blog¹ with views well below even my own normal paltry highs. I would like to understand why this might have been because, quite frankly, I would like to try to do something about it. I have read through the week’s posts (and I can only apologise) but I can’t honestly find any particular reason for such a drop-off in readership: everything chugged along just as aimlessly as ever it did. Tuesday followed its normal eclectic² path and last week I published a short sketch. In days of yore I wrote sketches by the dozen. There was a time when it appeared that people might be interested in them. Sketch comedy, it seems, no longer exists anywhere other than between my ears, but I like it, so you may get more. It doesn’t really matter; very few people read the blog on Tuesday. It is the only day that I currently approach with no semblance of a plan. Tuesday is me – a decrepit old mirrorball with half of the mirrors hanging off and a troubling amount of smoke coming from the motor that is supposed to make the whole thing turn – so that probably explains a lot.

Wednesday, as has become normal, was a little, nonsensical, vaguely zoological rhyme. I started these nine months ago and I decided that I could keep them going for a year without quite realising how long that year could be. Poetry is normally a ‘banker’ for WordPress views. Mostly it does very well, but not last week. Was it particularly poor? Well, it depends upon what you compare it with. Compared with anything that could even vaguely be described as ‘acceptable’, yes, it is poor, but compared with the rest of my own poetic output it ranks somewhere in the territory of not particularly worse than any of the rest of it, so again I am left without an explanation. Perhaps it was a little sombre for a nonsense rhyme… except, except, except, to know that, you’d have had to have read it and hardly anybody did. Perhaps, dear reader, you have just become bored of the whole concept. Maybe a year is just too big a stretch. I haven’t yet given a moment’s thought to what will come on Wednesday this week, but it will be a ‘zoo’ poem. Beyond that I’m not sure. I will see out the year because that is what I set out to do. After that I might bail out of Wednesdays altogether – so book your holidays now.

Thursday has become a regular ‘running diary’ although it is seldom, if ever, about actual running. It is about… well, if I’m honest, I don’t know what it is about, but whatever it is, it normally occurs to me whilst I am running. Now I haven’t been well for a week or two, so no running has taken place and perhaps the running diary has, consequently, lost a little relevance³. I hope to be back running this week and whining about it by Thursday. I cannot understand how my grindingly lachrymose recollections of a gasping trot through the village could possibly be anything less than entertaining.

And then comes Saturday and The Writer’s Circle. I really don’t know what I am going to do about Saturday. Last week’s little episode staggered through the weekend thumbing its nose at a readership that stubbornly remained in single figures. It is not entirely unusual for these little stories. Last week’s was a part two and as with all part two’s (except, perhaps, for Toy Story, Star Wars [although that, obviously, was actually part V] and The Godfather) it paid the price, but I have to recognise, I think, that I have created a bunch of people here – rather like the Shadow Cabinet – that absolutely nobody cares about. I think I might have been mixing up ‘interesting’ with ‘amusing’ and winding up with something that is neither one nor th’other: clearly interusing does not buy me readers.

I feel that I might have to find a way of giving myself a kick up the butt without falling flat on my arse⁴. It may not be quick and it may not be pretty, but I will try to find a way⁵. Until then, I can only ask you to bear with me and, if possible, try to read everything twice, just in case it should ever improve.

After all, you never know⁶…

¹ I realise that for those of you who habitually read this nonsense, disappointment is a stalker: if you cannot get an injunction, you will find it an ever-present nuisance.
² Tuesday does what it does. I have no explanation for it.
³ I am uncertain as to what the loosest possible definition of the word ‘relevance’ is called, but this is undoubtedly an example of it. Originally I used the word ‘urgency’ but I had to change it after I realised that I haven’t even approached any degree of urgency since puberty.
⁴ © MixedMetaphors.com
⁵ Although, for now, all that I really have to offer is a navel that has been gazed at so often it has just got itself an agent. If only I was somebody else, what fun I could have writing about me.
⁶ At least, I never do, although, truth be told, I never did.

As ever, answers (in not more than your own words) on a postcard (or a stuck-down envelope) please…

An abject apology

I haven’t been out to run today. I haven’t really stopped to do anything that I want to do – and that includes writing this blog. I am sorry.

I will try very hard to write something tomorrow because I don’t like to see untidy gaps. Not, unfortunately, that I am seeing untidy anything at the moment because I am in receipt of a new pair of specs and, truth be told, something is definitely not where it should be. I can, with a little difficulty, arrange them in such a way that vision is available, but unfortunately when I look in a mirror I then find that my glasses sit at a forty-five degree angle across my face. Now, I know that my ears are not symmetrical and my nose is a little eccentric in its positioning but, none-the-less, this is really not working for me and I’m beginning to get a bit of neck ache. It is a situation I will have to address just as soon as I can be bothered.

Nor is this a valid reason for a) not writing a blog and b) not running, because I tend to do both in contact lenses and I have my old glasses anyway. Somehow the day has just disappeared into a miasmic haze of grandchildren, double-glazing salesmen and plumbers and I can’t seem to pick up the threads. Three consecutive nights of lying awake reading whatever came to hand (last night ‘Adrian Mole – the cappuccino years’*) listening to cats prowling (yes, you can hear that) foxes yowling and homeward bound couples bickering have taken their toll. My whole being is teetering on the brink of a sleep that will, somehow, never come. I have tried no nightcaps, I have tried one nightcap, I have tried two nightcaps; this evening will probably involve a whole bottle full. I feel like many years ago when I sat through the film ‘Ghandi’ wondering ‘why have I chosen to do this with my life? I could have stayed outside, in the sunshine, counting my toes.’

Anyway, tonight I will go to bed with a pad and paper and tomorrow I will run. One way or another you should get something that, although a day late, will fit the criteria. In the meantime, please accept my apology. As always in my life, the circumstances are beyond my control…

*Probably tells you more than you ever need to know about me that these books still make me cry with laughter at times.