It’s Saturday night and I’m indoors watching rubbish on the TV. Actually I’m writing this at the same time, which is somehow even worse.
All the other members of the escape committee have…well….they all escaped leaving me behind. There’s no music. Dancing has been banned. I can’t go for long walks. I’m stuck in ‘Drudge World’, a brand new puritan theme park where the really long queues are for dull rides.
Where fizzy drinks are banned but there are stands selling porridge;
“Will you be wanting that hot or cold, sir?”
There are carpets to be chewed. There are walls to climbed. There are …. well no there aren’t. I am beginning to lose it just a little;
“Even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day. And for once I'm inclined to believe Withnail is right; we are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell. Making an enemy of our own future. What we need is harmony. Fresh air. Stuff like that.”
Withnail and I.
It’s Sunday morning and now I know I’m depressed. I’m exhibiting a well-known international distress signal: I’ve been growing a beard. It’s three days now. It looks as pathetic as I feel. The last time was when I was in hospital and didn’t have a razor. What’s got into me?
I only do it when things aren’t going well – “might as well, before I…….”
Well no actually I had better not. A sad, salt and pepper wispy beard is not going to help at all.
And all the staff at ‘Drudge World’ are required to have beards.
That’s got to go, right now.
(a don’t stop till you drop production)