Dearest sweetest Hearts, do me a favour and don’t tell my mother: It appears Con was right after all. I am not with it.
Even Magpie, my loyal and shining knight in armour, ever ready to defend my honour, has forsaken me. Am now in no MAN’s land though Ramana might still consider my proposition providing I bring a cow or whatever Indians treasure. Don’t worry, Ramana: I’ll fatten the cow and I will look after you. Do your tunics need to be ironed? I like ironing – it’s a metaphor for the futility of one’s efforts and life in general; an illusion of the wrinkle that never was.
My recent discovery and publication of being cross dominant has once more confirmed to me that one canNOT be too cautious as to how much you reveal about yourself. First there is a snowflake, then there is a ball, then there is an avalanche – now I find myself pronounced brain damaged. Not least confirmed by Google. Don’t google – just live with yourself as best you can.
Leaving, this minute, aside what I amount to (a self pitying heap of what was once a promising mole hill) I myself wonder whether I’ll soon be embracing a horse in Turin: My dreams about the Consortium. Correction: My dreams about my blog and writing comments on the Consortium’s. I do so nearly every night – in my sleep. Remembering my mouthings wordperfect on waking: Am I mad or am I mad? Whilst, in recent weeks, I haven’t woken myself screeming aloud when dreaming about the CONsortium I will come back from Morpheus’ arms in a cold sweat – only made colder by the relief when realising that indeed it was ONLY a dream. See what you’ve done to me? I am a glowing shadow of my former self. Doesn’t matter: Just don’t tell my mother.
Cortisol levels rising, yours,