I am not liking today.
I could drape a limp hand across my brow and utter heartbreaking snatches about wandering lost and alone through the desert of my soul, but that would be ridiculously pretentious and would fool no one, least of all me. Dittrichia graveolens by any other name still smells like stinkweed, and the truth has nothing to do with my soul and everything to do with the fact that today I am a grumpy old cow, bored and unmotivated – ie it’s one of those days formerly attributed to getting out the wrong side of the bed, although I’ve no doubt modern psychobabble has now come up with something far more exotic.
Of course the weather doesn’t help. The sky is drawn from a wildly exciting palette shading from pale grey to white, and everything beneath it is correspondingly sullen. And anyone who suggests I might light it up with the sunshine of my smile is likely to get clobbered about the head.
My life is full of truly wonderful things for which I am duly grateful. Having a book to read is one of them. I shall now go and read it.