It is almost my bed time and I have only just started writing this.
Of course I am on the taxi rank again, although not with any enthusiasm, nor with very many customers. Worse, I have not done any of the things I ought to be doing, such as writing this for a start, but also writing my story, reading some of the books I am supposed to be reading for my course, or even writing to the council. Instead I have been side-tracked into reading terrifying articles online, all purporting to have the inside truth about the Government and the bat-flu.
I hope that they have not, otherwise we are all doomed.
I have depressed myself considerably in this manner for over an hour now, and only reluctantly managed to tear myself away to write to you.
In part my lack of enthusiasm has been caused by the inescapable difficulty of having had a day completely devoid of noteworthy event.
In fact that is not quite true. Of course no day is without its small adventures, and today has been no exception. Roger Poopy lost his ball this morning. He put it down somewhere in the park when his jaw started to ache from carrying it. He needed a wee and so dropped the ball and sauntered off.
I was not watching, because I was chatting to somebody else with a dog, and hence did not see where he had left it.
We searched and searched but could not find it.
Roger Poopy was very upset indeed. Not when we could not find the ball. He is really not clever enough to understand a search for a lost item, and trotted around at my heels, wondering why I kept going on and on about his ball when I would not throw it for him.
He was very upset when we got to the corner of the cricket pitch, where I usually throw the ball, and then I didn’t.
He rushed up to me and barked and barked, but still I did not throw the ball. He barked some more until I shouted at him to shut up, and then subsided into an unhappily wounded silence. Then he trailed sadly behind me for the rest of the walk, occasionally looking up at me expectantly, in case I might kindly throw his ball for him so that he could bounce after it and bark again, but I didn’t.
I looked for the ball again on the way out, but it was not there.
Then we went back home and I went to the post office. When I came back he looked so forlorn that we went out again, back to the park to see if we could find it.
We searched thoroughly through all the fallen leaves. We wandered up and down, staring at the ground. Well, I wandered up and down. Roger Poopy rushed about and barked at me, in case I might be persuaded to throw his ball for him, but I wasn’t, and in the end he was just sad again.
There is no happy ending to this story. Poor Roger Poopy has lost his favourite ball. He liked it very much, because it glowed in the dark if somebody shone a torch on it for a minute. This detail has enchanted him ever since he got it, and now it is gone and tomorrow I will just be throwing a dull tennis ball.
He has been sunk in gloom all day.
In other news, it rained on the washing this morning. This was my own fault for not paying attention, but it had dried so nicely outside yesterday that today I was more optimistic than the conditions merited.
I can’t even blame the Weather Gods, who were presumably just looking on with disbelief that anybody could be so completely incapable of reading the signs. Surely the ponderous black clouds were enough of a hint.
I have now told you all about the most exciting parts of my day, and am going to go back to reading drivel on the mighty Internet.
I am sure you never do anything like that, readers.
