And then again

330th post and counting.

Anyway.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

It was the times that made you wish that the times would get over themselves and stop whining. And get on with whatever they were supposed to do.

Not complaining. Not exactly. But baked beans figure somewhere in there.

That, and the feeling that something should have gone wrong, but didn't; and that things might have gone wrong, but they didn't want to, or couldn't, or tried to but turned out quite differently.

I shall now quote more excerpts from books that you may never want to read.

I wonder why I keep doing this. It's not that there's a point in there somewhere. Unless it's so sharp, even I can't see it.

And from Pratchett's Maskerade -

And then a name rose out of the throng. Oh, yes. Her. Why hadn't she thought of her? But you didn't, of course. Whenever you thought about the young girls of Lancre, you didn't remember her. And then you said, "Oh, yes, her too, of course. O' course, she's got a wonderful personality. And good hair, of course."

And Going Postal on the subject of what high heels can do to people -

There was movement under the table, a small fleshy kind of noise and the drunk suddenly bent forward, colour draining from his face. Probably only he and Moist heard Miss Dearheart purr: "What is sticking in your foot is a Mitzy "Pretty Lucretia" four-inch heel, the most dangerous footwear in the world. Considered as pounds per square inch, it's like being trodden on by a very pointy elephant. Now, I know what you're thinking: you're thinking, "Could she press it all the way through to the floor?" And, you know, I'm not sure about that myself. The sole of your boot might give me a bit of trouble, but nothing else will. But that's not the worrying part.

Loser's Lurgy.

When You Are Old by William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Just finished Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials today. This just seems to...fit.