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Friday, 31 March 2017

In which it's turned to dust...

Daylight snuck in through the charity shop curtains...

It wasn't one of those shafts of spring sunlight that carry dancing diamonds of dust within, it was an intrusive, dull thud of gloom announcing another day.

Anyway even if I'd been able to see the dust (there's yet another fecking scaffolding tower in the garden obscuring light) 'twould have been merely someone else's skin particles for me to inhale. Isn't that what 90% of dust is, Dear Reader, human skin particles?

Scaffolding shoots up around here with alarming regularity. As soon as the pink shoots of the paeonies peek through the soil you can bet your bottom dollar that a small, ugly gang of oiks will appear, take down the fence, mince up what's left of the lawn and erect another sodding tower.

Shame it wasn't a couple of weeks ago when One was looking for somewhere to hang Oneself by the neck until dead.

Yes, at last, suicidal gloom has faded away to be replaced by a fatalistic acceptance of abject misery and penury as I trudge toward the grave.

Off back to gainful employ on Monday. Not enough to pay the bills and eat. I'd like to see whoever came up with 'the living wage' actually exist on it.

I'd really rather like to just sit on the second hand sofa watching daytime TV and eat pies until I explode.

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