Monk Quixote

Please read this post with an opti­mum pendulum-based head rota­tion around the hor­i­zon­tal plane of 135 degrees. Oscil­lat­ing, mostly ship­ping fore­cast.  Prefer­ably man­gling your con­so­nants as well.  Cup of earl grey optional, but it must be rain­ing out­side.  Or you could be drink­ing hot lemon and wax­ing nos­tal­gic in your head about the kinds of things Cath Kid­ston would sell if it were a licensed sex shop.  It isn’t, I checked.

“This year’s maze is

End­less

This year’s muse is

Effort­less

This year’s mess is

Choco­late.”

Seri­ously, though.  What a fuck­ing pain in the arse David Gray is.  I mean, com­pared to cer­tain peo­ple at in a work envi­ron­ment his destruc­tion of the Eng­lish lan­guage, and indeed acoustic-guitar and plinky plonk piano dri­ven chuga­boom, he is but a speck on the cos­mic fly­pa­per of life.  But still.  It is eas­ier to berate some­one I’ve never met, never will meet, never want to meet and only have a cur­sory knowl­edge of his out­put than the indi­vid­u­als who are mak­ing my 9–5 about as mean­ing­ful as his lyrics.

Any­way.  Not the time or the place.  Plans are afoot, and we shall see.  Although it would help if I could apply the same effort­less­ness to get­ting Tom through the phone call he’s cur­rently been on hold with for weeks as I do to reply­ing to other people’s blogs or sta­tus updates.  BECAUSE THAT’S GOING TO GET ME AN AGENT, isn’t it.

FFS.  Any­hoo.  Choco­late.  Over-rated really.  Although the Mayans would dis­agree.  But what with their civil­i­sa­tion being wiped out and all, I may sleep easy about that.  Despite choclit hav­ing caf­feine in it.

What would choclit be like?  What is a pra­line novel?

Any­hoo.  Wit­ter­ing.  Just wanted to check in with myself, as the say­ing goes.  Hi me.  Fancy a dairy milk button?

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