You nearly weren't able to read this. "That's a pity, it would have been blessing!" I hear you cry. No such luck, I'm afraid - it's all worked out swimmingly and this week's witterings have once again found their way onto the hallowed pages of SUR in English. The thing is, what with all the festive antics and all, I completely lost track of time. My old English teacher at school, Mr Boyle, was wont to exclaim at regular intervals, "Edgerton! You don't know what day it is, lad!" I imagine he's chortling heartily right now in some celestial classroom somewhere, content in the knowledge that his was a fairly accurate summation of my character, after all.
Normally, like most boring people, I have a weekly routine which involves such things as ordering supplies for the pub, writing/rehearsing some music, cleaning the house (not every week, obviously) and nearly all of these tasks are assigned to a specific day. Unfortunately, owing to the general haze of tinsel, turkey legs and passive aggressive in-laws, a lot of us lose track of which day is which around this time of year. It's all New Year's Eves and Boxing Days and the blessed morning your brother and his wife finally give us our house back. None of them are called Tuesday or Saturday or any thing normal like that.
So it was that I woke up this morning thinking, "I could have sworn it was Thursday today. Good God, man! It is Thursday today! Now then, did I ping my article in to SUR this week? Last week, if I recall, they asked me to send it on a Monday instead of a Wednesday but, no, maybe that was Boxing Day Eve Night Year thingy." At this point smoke began bellowing from my ears and my brain started to feel like last month's cabbage in a blender. In depth inquiries (an email) revealed the shocking truth - no, I hadn't sent the article in yet and there was only a matter of hours to spare.
What could I possibly write about? A wave of panic pervaded the very core of my being. You know the brilliant film All The President's Men about the Watergate scandal starring Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman?
Well, picture one of those scenes where it's all frenetic typing and telephones ringing and people shouting and running about waving bits of paper as if the end of days is upon them. And then picture the total opposite - a middle-aged bloke lying on his bed yawning and scratching his empty baldy head.
I could not, for the life of me, think of anything interesting to write about in the limited time available.
So, I thought I'd write about that.