You know that Monday morning feeling when you think you really ought to update your blog but somehow you just can’t be bothered? It’s such an effort to find a new theme to galvanise and excite your critical, yet intellectually sympathetic, readership but does one really want to dredge through the detritus of past despatches (nice alliteration with the D’s there) just to satisfy the burning lust to write something?
Actually “burning lust” is a bit strong. The vaguely tepid wish – that’s a more accurate and somehow nicer way of putting it. God knows how many blogs there are on the planet now but whatever the number, it is way way too many. I don’t see why I should rack my brains to knock out another punchy and strangely topical piece when it is fighting for the merest nod of recognition amidst a sea of contenders. I could go on about the two days last week when the Piccadilly failed to run a decent service whilst boasting to the world about how there were no delays.
Or you might like an account of the fight that broke out in my carriage on Friday night between a group of youths who wanted to push their bicycles up and down the compartment and another group who objected. There was ritual abuse of the sort I thought was only heard on TV soaps “I’ll hit you” “you’ll do what?” “you heard” “you’ll do what?” and yes, from a girl “leave it!” (if only she had added the essential coda “he’s not worth it”). I had my mobile out ready to dial 999. Fortunately the bikers left at South Harrow and the others stayed on, justifying themselves in terms reminiscent of the classic Derek and Clive sketch “This bloke come up to me” (‘ee said hello so I kicked him right in the balls. Well, I was only defending my **** self).
Oh well. I got home okay and here am writing about it. Be seeing you