Bluebottle

There are – about four – people out there, in my life, at whose shoulder I’d like to throw myself right now – not all of them at once, obviously; none of them available this minute. Some of you might flatter yourself, some of you will not have the faintest idea that you are included, but you are.

I am in the fix of all fixes. Even my sister who has known me from the moment she was born is at her wits’ end. Of course, she did kick ass this afternoon and asked me to get on with it. Meanwhile, and I can’t begin to tell you how much I despise myself for it, I have fallen into the trap of using my blog as a confessional. It’s awful. How could it have happened to me, of all people?

I blame the fly for my current state of mind. There is a massive fly buzzing about in my – pretty large – study. It’s elusive. Both cats have been creating havoc among all my papers trying to catch it, unsuccessfully. I can hear it but I can’t see it. Then it goes all quiet, so you forget about it – until it starts up again. It’s torture; particularly as I like quiet. What do you think? Is it the ante chamber to my private Dante’s hell? Am I going mad? Who planted the fly in the first place? (Sorry, I have been involved in too many other people’s conspiracy theories in the last couple of days or so).

I marvel at how fragile yet resiliant the brain is. Holding onto the plot as best as I can.

U