Before I answer my last four commentators on that ghastly “Leftovers” post of mine – now congealed – let me make myself even less popular.
I am stricken, Sweethearts. Stricken. On many a front. I don’t want condolences, sympathy, or anything. Not even your attention. I am not yet ready to phone the Samaritans and even if, I’d only speak to the one and only John. Largely comparing notes on geese and goat herds. As I fritter my life on the inconsequential, instead of concentrating on the essential, thus doing what LOS (longest standing friend – he who speaks his truth unvarnished, and you will recoil when he does) once told me: “You (that’s me) are sabotaging yourself. ” At the time I didn’t take much notice of it. However, 16 years on, I think he might have been onto something. Can’t say I like Scarlet O’Hara much – not least because I have taken on board her last words: “Tomorrow is another day.”
This minute I need to eat. I don’t feel like it. I am not hungry. Till I have nailed it. Pass me the hammer.