Thank you...

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....Anna for your birthday wishes. Also thanks to Mr Adams for his (belated) greeting.

I have been embroiled in matters fiscal, Anna, for the past weeks. Meetings with my accountant have taken up much of my time and, I am sorry to say, my ship of fortune is listing rather badly.

I have listened to Martin's Money Tips on the radio and considered bankruptcy as a possible solution. A last resort?

The thing that's puzzling me is where has all the money gone?  I was, perhaps not rich, but reasonably well-off when you knew me in the olden days. Ok so I spent some of it on you but I don't begrudge a penny of that. You could have chipped in with a few bob here and there but I gave you the impression I was wealthy so it's understandable that your hand rarely went into your pocket. (actually I don't think you ever wore anything with pockets).

But that couldn't account for the vast sums that have disappeared down the plughole. Where did I go wrong?

Perhaps I have spent too long dallying in the leafy glades of academia. I was busy worshiping at the altar of metaphysics while others were making money.

A blind man in a coal cellar, looking for a black cat that isn't there?

Ah, but the cat may be there, and if I am the one who finds it...

I think I've been too generous - by far. But where are all those upon whom I bestowed largesse in the past? The bookmakers;the brewers; the pub landlords; the homeless; the destitute; the fallen women...
Where are they now, eh?

I am reminded of a song written by an old folk singer...

First you lose the rhymin'
Then you lose the timin'
Then you lose the money
Then you lose the friends.

I don't remember losing the rhymin' or the timin' ... but I know what he means.

So yes, Anna, I am feeling the wind of change blowing up the old trouser leg, and things do not bode well.

Also winter draws nigh. Not my favourite time of year.

I penned this poem a few days ago:


Through the soft mist of an autumn morning
I see winter, crouching in the copse
At the end of the avenue.
Waiting.
Waiting for the dark evenings
When he can steal silently, unnoticed
Up the paths and driveways
Of sleeping suburbia,
And in the morning -
Spring out, and hit you
With his frost and fog.

Oh you mindless citizens,
Why do ignore my warning?
Why do you say: It is still summer,
Let us play and take no thought for the morrow?

Then suddenly, Winter is upon us,
And we cry as icy rains beats
Against our double-glazing, and
Frost and snow slipperifies pavements,
And we flinch
At the sound of cracking hips.

Too late, too late -
You should have listened to me.
And now Winter has you
In his grip

But there's nowt we can do, when all's said and done,
So I am off out, to have me some fun.

I have thought of picking up where I left off with my autobiography. The first part, dealing with my early childhood in a mining village, is called In the shadow of the slag heap.
I think it's quite promising. In fact I may post the first page, here on this blog!

I went away for my birthday - on my own - to Llandudno. It is good, now and then, to wake up in a strange bed (of course you know that)

There is lots more I want to talk about, Anna - need to talk about but it will have to wait.

Oh, and I have decided to take up Dave's offer - yes I know he will be back from summer camp but he originally said he would sleep on the sofa if I wished to visit.  Does the offer still hold good?
Sound him out, Anna.