I had communicated with people very rarely since moving into my cottage four years ago. A weekly visit to the village shop, where I slipped around pointed questions from locals and bought groceries and other essentials of life sparingly. The woman behind the counter was used to my ways, used to my unkempt appearance and no longer sniffed the air discreetly to gauge how far I had sunk in terms of personal hygiene. She was reassured. I kept myself, my clothes and my cottage clean although for what reason I couldn’t say. There was no profit in it. I put it down to habit: an ingrained dislike of ingrained dirt.
I am approaching the age where I simply can’t be bothered.
Can one choose to become a psychopath or sociopath?
I’ve had a metaphorical stone in my metaphorical shoe for most of my life. Hence the metaphorical limp.
I’d be more than happy if the UK had less influence on world affairs, if it lost its standing in the world order, if it became an insignificant island off the western coast of mainland Europe, and if it minded its own business and just got on with looking after its people. I’d be almost delirious, I know it, if this country of mine concentrated on quality of life rather than standard of living.
Should I or should I not… write?
Life has no plot, just a series of random happenings with vague connections to other random happenings. Only the writer or the knave or the fool pretend otherwise.
OMG, it’s soooo depressing and fear inducing and altogether boring in its gossipy insincerity, as reported. The human race is cruel and insane, as reported. We are all doomed, as reported. It must be nice to have an infinitely long rest from it all.
Never go anywhere without a chaperone and always record conversations with everybody, even with your spouse. Especially if your spouse it female. YOU CAN’T BE TOO CAREFUL!