Hanging in there, Strappado-style … that seems to be my mantra at the present time.
It’s so interesting – albeit in a thoroughly ‘you shouldn’t have’ soul-destroying way – to detect just to what extent the mind can influence so much of our general well-being.
While I’ve always been partial to the mountain high-valley low leitmotiv, these recent weeks have seen an altogether more troublesome grey blanket of gloom descend.
Yet even now, I find there’s still a hint of a vapour left in a tank I fully assumed was as empty as a famous empty thing that’s famously empty. There’s just no future in despair, believe me; I’ve tried.
I’ve also discovered that I don’t care much for the term Parkinson’s Warriors. After all, a warrior going into battle does so knowing there’s a chance – however slim – that the war ultimately can be won.
But something does need to change if this, my last stand in many ways, is yet to succeed. If it does, it most certainly will be a Dunkirk type success, with no glory and a lot less dignity than everyone involved with that Exodic escapade merited.