A smattering of jogging pant.

My mind is an abandoned fairground, but not a romantic, ‘ Coney Island’ at dawn on instagram.  It’s more like the Winter Wonderland in Luton which promised reindeer and rides and visits to santa, but in reality the reindeer were absent, the rides weren’t working and santa was a rude man in a red shell suit.  It’s empty up there today; in fact, I’m sure I just heard the echo of something, a synapse, maybe, as it clunked to the hard dirty floor of my brainspace.

 

It’s the weekend: I should be renewing myself; going to the gym, working on the novel, meditation.  Instead, I have spent it in a two day funk, which I attribute largely to Netflix and the proliferation of Muppet films on the television.  All around me, Manchester is doing things, taking photographs, knitting, hiking, watching cool films, running,  I have a serious case of activity envy, but seem to lack the ambition to do anything about it.  For today, I blame the TV, but tomorrow, it shall not pass.  Here’s how I figure it: I have a week left of writing every day and after that, I will tap in when I can, but I aim to write only the good stuff and new stuff, not the crap, which let’s face it, writing every day is bound to bring to the surface once in a while.  I defy anyone to be consistently fabulous and witty and curious.  Everyone requires a smattering of jogging pant in their life.  Even Coco Chanel, I bet.

 

Today is mine.  Normal sevice shall resume tomorrow.

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