As a rule by Wednesday I have concocted some sort of post on my walk to work, and look forward to the weekend to 'get it down'. However as you have become aware, this in recent weeks has not been the case. Perhaps it is the flow of tears and snot as I wade through Pollen (hooray not poo), which is killing the creative vibe. Or perhaps like my game of bowls, my skills are only there when I am blissfully unaware, as soon as I become fixated on any ability to strike, poof, the strikes dry up! I guess I could try walking to work blindfolded or coax myself into a zen like state of unawareness but I have an irrational fear of loosing my life on the main road.
This blog began life with The Worst Christmas Fair in the World, and swiftly became a carthartic half hour, a safe haven to rant without harm to myself or others. It is just that my own therapy is too good. Of late I have passed many South Leeds atrocities and not even blinked, instead a few butterflies skip by, a little cherry blossom floats down and I skip my way through the filth with a smile on my face. I am afraid goodness is just not funny, and happiness is a real humour killer.
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