Lost: Mojito (refrain)
Exactly four years and one month ago I had this exact thought.
Maybe what goes around comes around. I mean, a lot's happened in my life in those intervening forty-nine months. A lot. Believe me. 49 sounds quite... omeric, doesn't it? (I should say that omeric is not really a word, as far as I know. Well, I just googled, and it turns out it's an abbreviation, but it's not a word in the sense of related-to-the-Jewish-tradition-of-counting-the-omer. At least, it wasn't until now).
But now, events are conspiring against me, it feels like. I try and live a drama-free life, I think it's good for your skin, but sometimes things catch up with you.
I feel delicate, sensitive, over-worked and have forgotten to collect my dry-cleaning for six continuous days. I need to buy wellies before I go to a festival at the weekend but I'm too busy. I have to pack and work out what to wear (not in that order). I have to write my column. I have to do a lot of work. I have to wear a suit for a meeting tomorrow, and that's not my minhag. I have to get up very early. I have to finish my book. I have to wash my hair. This has turned into a list, by mistake. I already have a list. I'm worried it might rain at the weekend. I'm worried, I should tell you, about a lot of things. I worry; it's my heritage.
There's a lot I want to say. I realise I might be talking crap here. And I've just realised, here probably isn't the place to write this stuff.
Maybe I should start a diary. You know. Paper. With a padlock on it. Retro, eh?
I think I what I need is - and obviously, you don't always get what you need, I'm just saying - is for people to say hello. And, preferably, something nice. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
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