Spurred on by a cryptic comment in a Facebook memory about some horror or other that I was undergoing and of which I now retain no memory at all (and is that not a sign that perhaps sometimes we, or certainly I, get worked up about things which really have no long term effect and can therefore be met with slightly more equanimity than I can sometimes summon) I naturally turned to the blog to find out what it had been all about.
And actually the blog was no help whatsoever. This mean one of two things. Either it really wasn't that awful or, slightly more likely, I had been deeply upset by The Dark Lord of University Gardens aka my doctoral subject supervisor, but didn't wish to commit details to a public document on the slim chance that a mutual acquaintance might see it and report back. This latter happened all too often. Not the reporting back, the self censorship of the upset.
Anyway while I was reading through the ups and downs of 2017 I came across accounts of my efforts to read down the pile of books on the chest of drawers beside my bed. Funny that, I thought, because although that pile eventually got down to nil (although I am not going to claim that they all got read, I suspect some of them just got put away) I'm fairly sure I have a bit of a stack there now.
So I went to check. And I do. To wit -
There are twelve. And so we all know what happens now ...
Only twelve? 😉😉😉
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