Having spent the weekend, and more depressingly the Sabbath, fitting shops, I felt in need of a warming ale. Or perhaps a glass of sweet sherry, which may have interested Mr Eliot more? It's him in the title, by the way, singing the love-song of Prufrock.
I had no complaint as to the day itself, nor indeed to the weekend: colleagues had been polite and distant, and a heavy Friday night had lined me for the two-day tryst with employment. What irked me somewhat was to return this evening to find my bank account denuded and my wine-cellar in a similarly empty state. Given that I was expecting bags of gold deposited last Friday I was, needless to elaborate, miffed.
I have been using an estate agent to monitor my property affairs in the Slagheaps but his incompetence has bottomed new depths. I aim to furnish his epitaph in a rather more positive fashion than that of the title: there will be a bang and a whimper but it won't be me that is moaning.
I guess that as I appear to be Public Enemy Number One in Bedford, due to my occasional use of a motor-car, a little bit of light homicide could add spice to the trial?
Before Old Possum was hi-jacked by felines and musicals, he declared that it was 'time to murder and create'. I try to do the creative bit every so often, still shying from tattoo artists, but I reckon some Cain and Abel could entertain me. Blimey, it's all been a bit Old Testament recently. Still, looks like no work next week, so I shall be reading into less obvious sources!
'I grow old'...but I do still dare to suck a peach. Even a lemon, as I am a sour old git.
Chins up!!
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