Early hours

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Well, Anna, it's 2 am and I can't sleep. It would be tedious to go into all the reasons - so I won't.

Snow lies like a thin blanket - no, more like a thin sheet. We never get extremes of weather in this neck of the woods. As I said to a man in a pub - 'We're very 'middle of the road'. He agreed.

I don't want to be 'middle of the road'... I want to live by 'extremes', and in a way I do. A roller-coaster ride. From the heights to the depths,

(there is an old song by Dory Previn, which has the lines: I have soared to star-stained heights/On bent and battered wings.
I think I know what she means. Though I am not sure I have found the mythical kings... in the title of the song.)

I am having a coffee with a tot of whisky in it. It might make me sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream... oh yes, I do a lot of that, Mr Shakespeare. I didn't know my head could hold all of that stuff. Funny thing, the brain. Apparently it has the consistency of porridge. And all that activity goes on in it. Amazing.

There was a time, when I was a boy, I had weeks of being unable to get off to sleep. I got really worried about it. I think my mother became quite annoyed with me. (I won't tell you what she did one night - although if I do serialise my story on here you will get to know about it).

I was thinking, when ? couldn't sleep - Who do I know who could offer me a bed for the night? In an emergency? And, you know, Anna, I couldn't think of anyone. (I know you would be only too happy to do so but you are having to live in lodgings yourself.)

Where did we go wrong?

But the game's not over yet, Anna. The wheel's still in spin.
The fat lady hasn't even begun to sing.
 (three metaphors for the price of one!)

Did you see the comment on the blog by 'starting over'? That's what I'd like to do - start over.

Do you think the past still exists - somewhere? Unlikely, according to the scientists. But they do say that the future may possibly already exist. Sometimes I get the strange feeling that it does. Nah... that can't be... can it?

The clock on the wall says 2.30am. Isn't it amazing how the time passes when you are writing (typing). Of course, time is relative... Einstein tells us that. I started to write a poem about Einstein... but I didn't finish it.

Or perhaps it's already finished, up there in the future.

I shall go back to bed.

Sleep tight.

Your George