At present I am adrift in a bleak winter.
My only ray of light is a small pugfaced dog.
She has conceived a grand passion for a particular towel.
I throw the towel and she capers. My, how she capers.
My spare time is greedily consumed by a manuscript requiring much red writing.
It's author and I lunched together today. I gave her poetry to read.
She wrote a poem and a half of her own.
I have 409 pages to go.
Tomorrow I will teach small children how to play a wonderous four stringed instrument.
Also how to save the world by tidying people's shoes.
And then I will cause them to remove their tap shoes if they're tapping while I'm speaking.
This may, I realise, cause some consternation. It will be worth it.
Now I will go and practice my own fourstringed instrument.
It will not save the world,
(unless I should happen to stumble across an atomic bomb which will destroy the world unless a cellist plays Scherzo into the microphone plugged into the ticking timer thingy )
but mastering Scherzo may take me to a higher realm of patience.
I am sure this will prove to be a useful skill.
P.S. My bed seems to have been plunged into the centre of the Arctic Circle.
Thus slumber is proving a little problematic.