We, I think, are fast approaching some revelatory time. Doomsday is, historically, a shaky bet, so I won’t proffer that, but some cult somehwere could probably supply me with a word for the first-phase aspect of it, a kind of pre-emptive checking in.
We are living in the wettest drought that ever was. I am so wet – so wet! Not since Noah took a shine to living among animals have people been this wet.
(Although, biblically, weren’t they all also dead? Genetics would indicate otherwise but, when it comes to the bible, it would seem there is a lot genetics doesn’t know.)
Not only am I wet, but I am freezing, and the heating is on, and it is MAY. Seriously. Eclogues and other pastoral guidance materials dictate that May is for, essentially, admiring flowers and fornicating, and I am instead attempting to walk the fine line between drinking enough hot tea to stay alive and sufficiently little that I don’t have to brave the freezing bathroom to pee every fifteen minutes.
Also I have painted my nails with an unexpectedly pricey neon nail varnish which I do not quite have the wryness to wear ironically and instead am sporting like a mum over-enthusiastically on a hen do for her daughter.
I am also remembering with pressing speed and humiliating accuracy that I find continuous prose of any length on any single topic terribly hard, and thus why I don’t spend more Saturdays trying to write novels.
So please count this procrastination, and allow me to return to a process where, for ever litre of tea drunk, I perhaps produce fifty words.