It must be hard writing a regular column for a paper. Having to deliver pearls of wisdom or (what's the equivalent noun for humour?) mint imperials of humour on schedule, rain or shine, hung over or bushy-tailed.
Brother T has nothing to say. The bat that flits at close of eve has left the brain that won't achieve. A number of loyal reader will be disappointed.
Possibly I am not getting out enough. But there is a world in a grain of sand, allegedly (there you go; two quotes from Blake in three sentences must be a mark of desperation). So it may be my lifestyle. Too many late evenings, too much red wine. That must be it. And the 16 year old Lagavulin that Uncle Keith brought with him last night. From a distillery dating back to 1742, some claim it the aristocrat of Islays, and it is just preternaturally good. Add a little water, close your eyes and sniff. You are instantly in the Highlands, peat smoke and seaweed, and no need to be anywhere else. And yet, it is soft and sweet on the tongue, with no hint of acridity.
It isn't only me, though. The Social Secretary has her head under a towel, inhaling steam and eucalyptus oil from a bowl. She's still wearing her glasses.
Outside it is raining, but there is a rainbow and the tits are picking at a fat ball under the bird table (fat balls of humour?). Bob has gone off to his weekend job as a Santa's Little Helper, K to sell shoes to minors, and all is well with the world.
Except Keith took the Lagavulin home with him.