There wasn't going to be much of this sort of thing during January I thought. In fact, mentally, I was so utterly shot after the "festive season" that I'd convinced myself that my online life had pretty much reached its natural conclusion.
I had a plan to post a quick (and, by now, probably rather familiar - at least to regular visitors to Lesser Blogfordshire) farewell message and disappear for the rest of the month, if not the year.
The same was also going to be true for FizzBok and TwitWorld, as Mr Holmes was likely to make a metaphorical leap into whatever the online equivalent of the Reichenbach Falls is, perhaps (or perhaps not) to magically reappear whenever circumstances (or the mood) grabbed me again.
I wasn't just suffering from a dose of the January Blues but more a full-blown case of the January Ultramarines, and the time seemed right to pack up my troubles in my old kit bag and bugger off back into the shadows of obscurity where I believed that I belonged.
To be perfectly frank with you, I'm never at my best at that time of year, and this year it had felt even worse than most, and, as my spirits spiralled down the plughole along with my hopes, dreams, fantasies and sense of worth, the most pointless thing to do appeared to me to be burbling on and on each day about things that nobody else had any real interest in or cared about my opinion upon...
A brief farewell, and I'd simply vanish and wonder whether anyone even noticed...
So... "Why" (you might very well ask) "Am I still here then...?" and it would be a very good question, to which I haven't any real answer.
The world, after all (at least the little island upon it on which I live) seems to have been battered half to death by the winds and the rain, and the touring sports-people whose antics I follow, seem to be getting battered half to death by their opposition, both things which were unlikely to lift my spirits and drag me out of the doldrums, or make me want to stick my head out above the parapet and face the world once more.
Not only that, but there was the inevitable misery that a return to the work-face brings after an extended break, not that the break itself had been particularly merry. I think that I saw six people and maybe spoke to eight in between leaving the office the Friday before Christmas and opening up the shutters again on the second day of this year, so it was hardly party central at Blogfordshire Towers, a place which I barely ventured beyond the four-ish walls off for the duration.
Sometimes I feel like I've already become one of those lonely, pathetic, elderly figures which seem to feature so much in the pre-Christmas charity adverts...
Meanwhile the responses to my online wit and badinage dropped off a cliff and the sheer pointlessness of continuing to try seemed to serve an ever-diminishing purpose as the year finally petered out to its squib-ish conclusion.
So... in the face of such indifference, I still haven't explained quite what was it that drew me back towards this most pointless of exercises quite so early in the year.
It was, of course, just my own obsessive compulsions which dragged me back. A need to respond to a kind message passed on to me after the funeral found me seeking out an old acquaintance on FizzBook, although, having done that, I then failed to communicate further. The daily word games in TwitWorld sucked me back into their wicked webs within 24 hours of the year starting, but most of all, it was the need for consistency in Lesser Blogfordshire which hauled my reluctantly back towards the keyboard.
"Ashes Mornings" parts one to four had already stained the spirits of my regular crop of nonsenses during the latter part of the year, and so part five needed to follow upon the first morning of the Sydney Test purely for the sake of completion, and that left a gap into which I dropped a disappointing cartoon.
Suddenly we'd already strung three days together and another year of daily idiocy seemed to be in the process of dragging me back into it, and so, once again, here we find ourselves...
I'm a fool to myself...
Well, I guess that's better than just being a fool, I suppose...
Although...
Not only that, but there was the inevitable misery that a return to the work-face brings after an extended break, not that the break itself had been particularly merry. I think that I saw six people and maybe spoke to eight in between leaving the office the Friday before Christmas and opening up the shutters again on the second day of this year, so it was hardly party central at Blogfordshire Towers, a place which I barely ventured beyond the four-ish walls off for the duration.
Sometimes I feel like I've already become one of those lonely, pathetic, elderly figures which seem to feature so much in the pre-Christmas charity adverts...
Meanwhile the responses to my online wit and badinage dropped off a cliff and the sheer pointlessness of continuing to try seemed to serve an ever-diminishing purpose as the year finally petered out to its squib-ish conclusion.
So... in the face of such indifference, I still haven't explained quite what was it that drew me back towards this most pointless of exercises quite so early in the year.
It was, of course, just my own obsessive compulsions which dragged me back. A need to respond to a kind message passed on to me after the funeral found me seeking out an old acquaintance on FizzBook, although, having done that, I then failed to communicate further. The daily word games in TwitWorld sucked me back into their wicked webs within 24 hours of the year starting, but most of all, it was the need for consistency in Lesser Blogfordshire which hauled my reluctantly back towards the keyboard.
"Ashes Mornings" parts one to four had already stained the spirits of my regular crop of nonsenses during the latter part of the year, and so part five needed to follow upon the first morning of the Sydney Test purely for the sake of completion, and that left a gap into which I dropped a disappointing cartoon.
Suddenly we'd already strung three days together and another year of daily idiocy seemed to be in the process of dragging me back into it, and so, once again, here we find ourselves...
I'm a fool to myself...
Well, I guess that's better than just being a fool, I suppose...
Although...
Snap.
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