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Must I still say it?
The errors are included to test not only your comprehension of the
language, your tollerance and your patience. Frequenting this site will
help you become a better person.




As I was still unable to log into my website due to maintenance work
on its Mother- Site/server on Sunday, I was forced to bang my head
against the keyboard, just once, before stoically accepting the irony
of the situation. Had I met with the same delay the previous week the
delay would have been welcomed, whereas on this Saturday I had
finished writing by 6.30pm and was eager to toss the finished product
out of my hands and up onto the net. The fact that I couldn’t, through
no fault of my own would normally have triggered a longer lasting
tantrum, but on this occasion the worrying noise that screeched from
my PC + the weirdest feelings  from the keyboard
to my nose and chin
were enough to make me instantly rethink repeating the action.


So I figured, if their maintenance was preventing me from uploading and
moving on, I would do maintenance on my computers & laptop and see
how they like it.
(Err...was ok wasn’t it? Not too harsh?)



Finally Monday came, I regained access to the back of theimpossibledream
and was able to upload the previous week’s Catch-Up. As always, what had
appeared very neat on my PC lost its margins on hitting my site, followed
by the alignment as I tried to impose new margins line by line. I’m sure
there are places on the internet detailing the easy transfer of documents
without losing their format. I’d even go as far as to say that it’s very likely
that among all the data stored in all those internet pockets of data storage
thingies, there are bound to be at least four or five of them right now, waving
politely as they patiently wait to guide me to them once I choose to look them

I would have looked them up of course, (any relevant data, not specifically 
the waving ones), but something must have caught my attention and pulled
my mind along with it in another direction. That happens to me a lot, so I
prefer to consider it just another part of my creative nature, albeit a less
positive part. The alternative, another step toward madness, is not up for




I sat before my computer, freeing my mind of all negative and impeding
thoughts brought on by bodily twinges and malfunctions, mindlessly
wondering at what point unlocking creative potential drifts into that
wonderland of imagination rarely remembered once the mean world of
reality bursts its bubble, defeatedly admitting in the outside world. I hadn’t
come to any conclusion, if there was any conclusion to come to.
I had noted only the big hand of the old-fashioned kitchen wall clock  being
near the seven when I first sat down, which could have meant that I had been
meditating (if that was meditating, I’ve never been quite sure what the word
meant), for nearly twenty minutes. But no, I’m sure that it was longer than
that.  An hour... or two ... or whatever number,  and nearly twenty minutes.

However long it was, at that time I was wrenched from my reverie by the
telephone ringing. I mean by all my phones of course, which is annoying as I
have a small house but five ‘home phones’ with as many strange tones set by
my son, of which none ring in unison with any other.  Naturally I need to look
out the paperwork for each one and work out how to change them to more
tolerable tunes, ideally to tunes that are either all the same or that complement
each other. I’ve asked my son twice now, and he laughs. For a basically kind
caring person he can be selectively mean to his mother.

It was Philip who called me. Philip was from a firm with a name that I couldn’t
quite catch, insisting that I filled in an internet survey ‘some time’ ago. He
wanted me to just confirm my postcode. Since he seemed to shy off my questions
and, i admit  I was not in the right frame of mind to forge what suggested to be a
difficult acquaintance, I decided not to play, and hung up. It was impolite of me I
know. If I didn’t hurt his feelings too much and he wants to chat in the future, 
perhaps he will call back ,  without the silly pretext - and no quizzing me next time.



On Wednesday I wrote. Grown-up writing initially comprising of a plan for another
chunk of On Reflection, handwritten whilst lying on my belly on the sitting room
floor then, to my great surprise, I  manoeuvred myself onto my feet and, taking
the paperwork with me, repositioned myself in front of the computer in the kitchen.
It was so tempting, more perhaps than you can imagine, for me to sit and quietly
absorb that happy moment – but I knew that if I didn’t make myself move on to
the next step, to fire up the notes into a living scene, then the moment to do so
could very well pass. So I continued on, not with the daydreaming but with the slow
process of putting down what flowed into my head, feeling great – doubly great having
the notes to bounce off. I wrote and edited as I wrote, looking back over each sentence,
each word, before moving on, changing one thing then one thing more poignant, more
Time passes. At the start I would save regularly but as I went on, getting further caught
up in the lives and responsibilities of the people I had created, the less I would consider
the practicalities of my own life after leaving there.

On my return I had to face the fact that I hadn’t saved my work for probably a couple
of hours. Due to the way I proceed, some of the new work is probably okay, and of course
I still have my notes... but as soon as I realised my mistake, the writing room in my brain
closed and bolted its doors.



On Thursday, I stopped in the town to buy a light-weight dressing-gown from M&S,
on my way to visit my mother in the residential home at which she now resides. 

     At this moment I cannot remember anything of Thursday further than the above, and it
    would  feel wrong to bounce off anything  regarding... the aforementioned ...things.
    You know why already, so don't ask. The only reason that you are trying to make me
    elaborate  is either because you are ageist, which I doubt on the basis that you are here
    at all , ( normally I would go further but I am becoming quite cross with you, in preparation
    for my next sentence), OR, you wish to take gratuitous pleasure in making me relive my
    most agonising moment, certainly of this week, by sharing with you a blow by blow, sway
    by stagger by bringing the whole display down - account of my pre-visit catastrophe.
    Well,I shan't.

     I will speak to you again when my brain switches back on.




Unless I delay doing so for a day or two due to laziness, which then means sorting
out morning and evening doses individually, or I forget which you will possibly be
surprised to hear happens only rarely, I sort my prescribed, suggested and bought
medication, vitamins and minerals into a 7-day dosette box each week. The benefits
of using this method is that I can always see at a glance whether or not I have taken
due pills, it is generally timesaving and, after I have taken the a.m. dose before getting
up I can simply carry the daily strip (containing the p.m. dose) downstairs with me.
All very clever and convenient when it works, but the downside can be less than clever
as I found (not for the first time) on Friday. 

I was quite happily wiling away my time between Twitter and deep thought, when a friend
phoned me and shortly into the conversation said that I sounded particularly tired. Now,
I think I should take a moment to point out that this is a friend of many years who, unlike
Philip also knows my postcode, probably. Anyway, it wasn’t so much that she said I sounded
tired, or how she said it – I’m always tired – it was just that hearing the word caused me to
recall the moment that morning when I tipped the pills into my mouth, the feeling of the ridge
of plastic on my thumb ... on the wrong side of my thumb: I had taken the evening pills.

It was now lunchtime and knowing that I should be able to sleep now taunted me. A friend
and neighbour  was due to come by in just over an hour to clean, if not maybe just this once
I could have closed my eyes in the daytime and drifted far away...



My son has been cutting back and clearing up in my back garden today, whilst I have used
the excuse of writing this
outstanding masterpiece to duck out of helping. Not that I wasn’t
tempted to lend a hand at times, when words didn't come without some active thinking invoved,
but temptation always fled once I reached the patio door

    The rest of today (Saturday) has been spent trying to get this written and into a shape that
    might be just acceptable to the passing critic.

Thank you once again for looking in and I hope you have a lovely week.
If you are interested in reading previous weeks catch-ups, please find links under logo at top of page.


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