Monk Quixote

Work.  Frus­tra­tion.  Work.  Frus­tra­tion.  Work.  Frus­tra­tion.  Work.  Frus­tra­tion.  Work.  Frus­tra­tion.  Typ­ing.  Not copy­ing.  Not past­ing.  Sick of it.

And I’m really too old for this feel­ing sorry for myself lark.  Larks.  Singing.  Spring.  Or Autumn as it happens.

SIgh.  Any­way.  No writ­ing.  No excuses.  I’ve been given time and space to do it.  And I haven’t.  For the sake of a styl­is­tic device.  Or more visu­ally, because I stopped to look down while I was cross­ing the chasm.

And I’m watch­ing adverts about bob­bling and shrink­ing, because that’s how I deal with it.  PS As much as I would like to claim the credit, I didn’t write the no arti­fi­cial colours jelly sweets thing ad, although my soul brother obvi­ously did.  THE TRUMPETS.

Sigh.  It will be eas­ier in the morn­ing.  As The Hot­house Flow­ers once said.  Although they also said there was a black cat singing by a shadow of a gatepost or some­thing.  Which is just non­sense.  No cat would sit in a shadow.  Greedy sun-sippers.

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