Two things:


Two of the energy-saving uplighter lightbulbs in my office have gone, and have thus been replaced. Except we’ve run out of white ones; I’m sitting here basking under a sodium street-light glow. It’s giving me a vague headache, but it feels somehow warmer. Evidently my brain thinks I’m sitting here beneath the glow of a two-bar fire.


When I sign of a chitty to say I’ve done a certain book, I date it. Because things here work in the fairly long-term, I date it with the year, as well, so a typical chitty might have something like “04/12/06, JTA” written on it.

Today, for some reason, I keep writing “01/02/03” rather than a more chronologically correct “01/02/07.” And I’ve just realised that’s because the last time I ever dated anything on the 1st of February was back when I was still in the VIth form, in 2003. I know this, because I distinctly recall being pleased that the date was, if you didn’t care too much about the tens or hundreds column, 1-2-3.

That, in itself, was probably quite sad. What’s rather sadder, however, is the way I seem to have clung to this feeble enjoyment for the past four years, to the extent that I keep trying to replicate it as soon as I’ve got to the “/02” stage.

Oh dear oh dear.

And now I’m going to see about a haircut, because Panto’s over and I’m fed up with my fringe poking me in the eye all the time.

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