It is not as easy as it looks, coming up with stuff for this... this... thing, day after day. Sometimes the marmosets are quiet, peaceful, and there is not a sound from the lawyer sty or the hairstylist pens. Days can go by without a single wry or halfway-amusing event that could be spun out to a paragraph or two. Most of the time too the wild sex orgies tend to pass without a mishap with the custard, or the goat escaping and fleeing down towards the by-pass.
In short, most days are the usual run-of-the-mill quiet days of unusual sexual perversions and surreal happenings that grace any small English village that boasts at least two cake shops and an indoor market.
This whole blogosphere is littered with blogs composed by people who believe their particular area is somehow quaint or interesting just because their local vicar wears extreme bondage gear and hangs around outside the post office pestering pensioners to whip his proudly-proffered genitalia with a rolled up copy of The Spectator. But the very ubiquity of such occurrences is enough to disprove the very uniqueness we like to claim for ourselves and to show that underneath the rubber fetish underwear and exotic unguents we are all very much of a muchness.
Still, as the post-festering season stumbles towards its inevitable conclusion and the Christmas season of hangover, bloated greasy queasiness and self-indulgent over-indulgent fades into no more than a distant regret, we can look forward to the ensuing spring. Then, Maureen and I can face the new days with a small hope that soon it will be time to mount the pursuit tandem in all our glorious nakedness and go further field into the green and sunshine, looking for whatever adventure comes our way, which can later be made into a handful of paragraphs of inconsequential drivel like this.