Pathetic Fallacy

Saturday 15th of January
I sat bolt upright – it was 7.17 the precise moment that dawn arrived.

Set my phone alarm and left the house to see the sunrise at 7.57.

The dawn arrives one minute earlier every day. By February 1st I’ll be springing out of bed at 7.00 on the button.

I walked slowly down the hill into a duvet of fog. I thought, who has blankets anymore? Droplets of water plopped onto my head from the fir trees as the gun metal grey clouds swirled. The road was wet. Everywhere silent bar the drip dripping from the canopy.
And then I remembered the literary term – pathetic fallacy – the attribution of human emotion to nature. The morning fog could not have been more pathetically fallacious.

Friday night party’s at number ten – shrouded in mystery
Wine chillers being delivered under cover.
Misdemeanour after misdemeanour, cloak and dagger stuff.

As I walked towards the day it was like a scene from a film noir; all it needed was some lush violins scraping a discordant backing track. The old git has always said I live in a film. I do tend to provide my own mood music.
We are living in murky times. Those tories who are not committing to their leader’s seediness, waiting for a report that will bring Boris’ grease to the surface so that they can finally make up their minds, to keep the sleaze bag or not. Perleeeese.

When I got home it was early enough to do me yoga and Pak Choy’s exercises.

By 10.00 the sun had burnt most of the fog away, I should have gardened but I needed to finish the car’s maintenance. I’d washed all the things I carry in the boot of my car: a waterproof jacket, my mothers old pink cardigan, a charity shop sweater, a blanket in case we need to cover a road traffic victim, a pair of split trainers, a pair of orange sandals, 30,000 jute bags, three peaked caps, and two neck muffs.

I had three dates and a coffee with the old git, then I had a bath whilst reading about the tapping solution. You know when you tap your head and eyes, under the nose and chin, tap-tapping away anxiety.

Not that I’m particularly anxious at the moment, but the foggy morning reminded me that we are indeed living in gloomy, shadowy times. We have a triumvirate of dismal men headlining the news. The first is a lying, tennis player allegedly, the second is a lying prince, allegedly, and the third is a lying twat, allegedly, who is posing as a prime minister. The triple pillars of the world transformed into lying fools.

When Peter Finch shouted
‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore’
in the film ‘Network’, when he shouted he was as mad as hell I was working at LBC. I took it into my head to get as many people as possible to telephone and shout out their frustration. And by jove they did in their thousands.

We are all as mad as hell, but those gaslighting buffoons would have us believe that we are the weird ones. Well you know as well as I that we aren’t the rule breakers here. We don’t have to wait for any civil servant to tell us what the truth is. We can make up our own minds.We can see that the emperor is notably naked and that his testimonials are dragging all over the floor.

It seems, so the astrologers tell us, that for at least two months we will be having revelations and rebellion. Well I’m not chucking my telly out the window but I am prepared to stand at my front door and howl at the moon;

‘I’m as mad as Hell and I’m not taking it anymore.’

Any takers?

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