The Thick Gray Mist in my Mind

My mind is dead. There are no words flowing from the dead centre of the little gray cells, and scouting through the many news networks reveals nothing of any note upon which to pontificate or rant. There is news of course, much of it banal or routine, and it is covered by all channels and being of little worth just makes the adverts a welcome relief. However I doubt I could be bothered wasting the keyboards time if it were not for my fingers desperation to write something. Before I switched the clunking PC on my fecund digits began typing words I had not yet thought off. I consider this somewhat worrying! This, to be honest, is considered worrying by others also, especially when the aforesaid digits began doing this in the dole office the other day. I got one or two strange looks I can tell you! However, had I still dwelt in the conurbation called 'London,' not one soul would have noticed, and if they did you would not have been able to tell they were aware of strange behaviour. That's the London way!

To enable some spark of intellectual endeavour I slurped, and spilled all down me when the phone rang suddenly, wrong number of course, coffee. This brightens the mind, encourages a more 'wakened' approach, and helped not a jot! It did mean another fleece for the wash however. I have always thought of coffee as an American drink. This is because 'Wagon Train,' and all those other cowboy programmes that lied to us about 'how the west was won.' TV cops, always in New York or San Francisco it seems to me, (don't they have crime in backwoods America?) always appeared to drink coffee, and for some reason none of them ever appear to finish the stuff. I imagine there are cleaning ladies picking up cups half full of dregs and muttering foul words in the direction of the users. Possibly being America they may just smile and mutter,'Have a good day ya'aall.' But I doubt it. However those Continental chaps, you know those ones who speak in unintelligible languages, like the French and Germans, they drink coffee. At quiet times, and in quiet area during the two wars, it was known that on occasion British troops have been known to swap 'Bully Beef (corned beef to you) for German 'Kafe,' along with the other delights their respective 'NAAFI's' had to offer. Whether such acts helped or hindered the war effort I am not sure. I wonder if coffee only really became popular here after the war when 'instant' coffee became available, and folks wages also began to increase. Now I believe we actually drink a little more coffee than tea. maybe that is why we are becoming more highly strung? I doubt we could live without 'Nescafe' these days. While some say the lessening of tax on tea powered the industrial revolution there is no doubt Britain would collapse if coffee was with held. Delirium Tremors throughout out the land would be the result, and 'Cold Turkey' would not just be for the days following Christmas!

Coffee failed me, and my mind remains dull and covered with a thin gray mist. I say thin as this shows how a clearing has appeared. It was a thick fog for the past few days and any effort of thought caused an ache which I wished to avoid in the manner I use to prevent myself being cornered by those who proffer collecting cans in my direction on the street. Now that reminds me of a story in tonight's 'Edinburgh Evening News.' (Now removed as it contained the picture which could interfere with any court case) Many shops sell the Red Poppies on behalf of the 'British Legion,' and several have been swiped from such shops. One enterprising shopkeeper has posted the picture from his CCTV camera in an effort to trace the two miserable swine who he reckons nicked the cash. Good for him I say! Not that I went into a shop to buy one mind. In fact the only things that I could write about through the dense mass that comprises my brain was concerning the Great War! This is because I have read a great deal about it, and TV has gone mad over it the past few days. Repeats of many programmes, most of which I have on video already (ask an old person re 'video' kids), and I am already ploughing through some 40 editions of a magazine which was produced in 1938 aimed at old soldiers. 'Twenty Years After' was written for those soldiers unable to take a trip back to the old battlefields, places none would ever forget, and 'then and now' pics were shown for comparison. Excellent stuff, but I cannot scribble about the war again, even if the brain is lifeless. So having nothing to say I will go and lie on the floor, stare at the ceiling and cogitate on the reasons for the dearth of words.