Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The new year is nothing of the kind. That’s right, Maud, we have been sold a pup – this year is merely yesteryear by another name.
How do I know? Because nothing has changed: Yeoman’s Hut remains unmade; my book still needs writing (it is an old-fashioned tome); and, least surprisingly, my ability to enter data is no less impaired.
Years of drudgery soften a man. Indeed, I now pity my predecessor – a glamorous being who became our laughing stock. Driven, no doubt, to distraction, she one day entered data of a different kind: her shopping list. It included birdseed for Albert, but sadly no stock – amused or otherwise.
Incidentally, I must remember, Maud, to delete this letter from the database.
Back to the topic at hand. If we are destined to relive a year, why not a good one? 1909 springs to mind. I too wish to acknowledge the independence of those bulgar Bulgarians. 1609 has its merits. That was the year Shakespeare’s sonnets first hit the street. And what do we find therein? Seven winged words: ‘Nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defense.’
For once, Maud, the Shakesbard is right: new or old, 2009 is an offer we cannot decline.
One last thing. Yesterday, a colleague and I signed a spanner pact; we two agreed to bring our spanners to work. Yet today, when we checked, neither of us had a spanner packed.