I haven’t been outraged for, ooh…days. I’m bored of hearing about a future consort’s bosom. Dave and his mates just keep on being what we always knew they were. The depth of the Hillsborough cover up is shocking, but actually not that surprising. Thatcher knew and did nothing because it suited her agenda; I’d have been surprised had she done anything else.
I’ve tried reading the papers. Nothing. It’s all a blur. When my brain feels more active I’m reading John Connolly’s Book of Lost Things. I am loving this book, but can only cope with small amounts at a time. (This is a young adult book.) I am also reading Marian Keyes’ latest, The Mystery of Mercy Close. You know I love Marian. This book is about the youngest of the Walsh sisters, Helen, a private investigator. Helen is on the hunt for a lost boyband chap- vanished just before the comeback concerts- and she is also having mental health issues. This is making me anxious. I was hoping to be transported to a world of laughter and empathy, not needing to reach for the anxiety tablets.
I found this over on The Clothesline. This seems to be level of reading I’m at right now…
I’m missing Donegal. Normal routines are back and girls have things to do at weekends. Next weekend, come hell or high water (that last is a strong possibility) we’re going away. It seems I’ve come to rely on all that nothingness. I’m already becoming mournful at the thought of packing up for the winter.
So, I’ll potter off and watch some tv drivel. I will return to my regular blogging genius when my brain engages.