Thursday, 14 July 2016


My whimsy has wondered off.

My flippancy has flopped.

My joie de vivre has joined the choir invisible.

My silliness is silent.

My humour has the hump.

My panache has panicked.

My wit has whimpered.

My mirth is moribund.

My fun has foundered.

My jollity has jumped ship.

My bon mots have buggered off.

My comedy has collapsed.

My effervescence has evaporated. 

In short, I'm finding it hard to write anything other than self-pity or grumpiness. Or political ranting, and it's becoming clear we've all had enough of that. I can't even raise enough oomph to comment on the fact that we now have Boris Bloody Johnson as Foreign Secretary. Mild hysteria perhaps, interspersed with gentle weeping.

I'm fairly certain LittleBear is still as endearing and as ripe for comedic anecdote as ever. It's probable that work is still giving rise to extraordinary moments of comedy gold. I just can't see it, or write about it at the moment. Maybe I'll get my my inspiration to write back again. I hope so, but don't be surprised if I'm quiet for a while.


  1. That's how I have felt these past few weeks, I'm halfway between joining ranks, no longer giving a fuck about others (I've started swearing) and then reminding myself that I need to be a good person so that my children can view the world as a beautiful place. I will look forward to your return.

    1. It's always good to know I'm not alone. Thanks Pamela. Take care of yourself and your little ones. xx