The wheelbarrow sinfonietta
It's all a bit odd really. For the most part, I'm feeling reasonably cheery. In that there's a bunch of stuff that I should probably worry about, but worrying won't fix any of it, so, um, stincle. Previously I would have been near catatonic with fear, thus unable to work during the week and boozing heavily at the weekend. (And the bits of weekend that didn't involve beer would have involved grinding paranoia because of the hangover.)
So when I did drink beer last, I burned off the hangover with a jolly nice beetle about on my pushbike. All very fine.
Even so, I get the impression (or perhaps give off the impression?) that I'm somewhat detached from people. For instance, I've been commenting up a storm (or more probably a brief shower with a mild northerly breeze) but abandoning 95% of the things while thinking "Nah, that's redundant / patronising / over-familiar / presumptuous." (Or, worst of all, make me look like some desperate hanger-on.)
On the other hand, the running's going well and I'm going to have to revisit the shop of trouserage in order to discover what trendy filth I must struggle to avoid. For someone with a terrible history involving Lionels, I've become rather attached to boot-cut jeans. It's a pity no bugger had the common decency to inform me what a complete Clarkson I looked in any other flavour.
Actually, the running and the eerie calm are more than likely connected.
There was probably some other things but, pfft. Whatever.
So when I did drink beer last, I burned off the hangover with a jolly nice beetle about on my pushbike. All very fine.
Even so, I get the impression (or perhaps give off the impression?) that I'm somewhat detached from people. For instance, I've been commenting up a storm (or more probably a brief shower with a mild northerly breeze) but abandoning 95% of the things while thinking "Nah, that's redundant / patronising / over-familiar / presumptuous." (Or, worst of all, make me look like some desperate hanger-on.)
On the other hand, the running's going well and I'm going to have to revisit the shop of trouserage in order to discover what trendy filth I must struggle to avoid. For someone with a terrible history involving Lionels, I've become rather attached to boot-cut jeans. It's a pity no bugger had the common decency to inform me what a complete Clarkson I looked in any other flavour.
Actually, the running and the eerie calm are more than likely connected.
There was probably some other things but, pfft. Whatever.