It’s the change of the seasons and my body is creaking. The goalless desolation of Autumn, the dying light and the rush to the pub — these are the things that ail me. Me and everyone else, it seems. Wringham is depressed, Rhodri waiting for succour, and I am in a state of complete confusion. Of course, it always feels this way — I always end up in this state and yet I never remember. i should start a kind of yearbook of events. August 28th — the start of Autumn and the beginning of depression.
Human beings are adaptable, though, we get used to it.
My memory is shot, I tell myself things and then five minutes haven’t the faintest trace of them. It is painful. I don’t suppose that they are particularly important things, but they are things nonetheless. I begin to worry about my purpose in life. I have let another summer slide past without event — except of course getting married. I get the feeling that I ought to be focusing on one thing to the exclusion of all others.
The fug of Autumn, an indirection, the forgetting a salient point, lost behind the fog. We escape to the pub, to keep the warmth of summer alive in our bellies, we get lethargic and ill. We turn to comfort food, I crave warm stodge to keep the cold from me. Smokers, their lungs rebelling, begin to cough and hawk.
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Aw, sorry Neil. That sucks buttock. I’m not prone to SAD myself but all this autumnal drizzle doesn’t help anything much.
Was nice to see you at the festival thing yesterday. Let’s hang out again soon.
R
Ah, a touch of hyperbole perhaps.
But yes, let’s meet up before you jet off.
Righto. I actually leave on Saturday. Some lesbians and I (and possibly Stu) are meeting for Dub and Grub. If it’s not too soon since your last dubbing/grubbing experience, would you care to join us?
Failing that, Friday should be good too. But not a late one.