Only an Excuse.

Mrs Clibrig has reprimanded me and quite rightly pointed out that, by deleting my blog because nobody reads it, I am behaving like an attention-seeking 12 year old.  

If it were true that I only write because I enjoy the unexpected directions a sentence can take, seemingly of its own volition, why should I get the shits because the rest of the world is content to just let me get on with it?

On the other hand, I have put so much of what's left of the rest of my life into writing this stuff that I'm going to leave it accessible to those few weirdos who enjoy the spectacle of some other looser exposing his genitals to the world for comment, hoping against hope that the response of at least some of the audience will not be any worse than indifference.

So fuck it, I'm re-posting the lot.

Do your worst, you miserable fuckers. Knock yourself out.

As Frank would say, "Fire in doll!"

 

As for further episodes of "Reflections", the flesh is willing but the mind is weak. 
(The spirit, however, is excellent. Especially the single-cask, cask-strength, non-chill filtered, 25 year old Port Ellen from Robertson's in Pitlochry).

I would be perfectly happy to continue to write stuff for my one reader (Hi, Mum!), but it is getting awfully bloody quiet here in the mist.

My morning-after reflections now only occur in the mirror, and it's not a pretty sight. 

I am running out of words.

Slainte.