The Neilitist sighs. Ground to a pulp by the recent news cycle, I can offer nothing that isn’t a bilious pustule or a too-unkind commentary on my fellow man. Nor do I have it in me at the moment to rhapsodize upon either the past, or the arts, or my kids, or religion. Strange too that this comes upon me as the weather takes a pleasant turn and the crocus is now replaced by the hyacinth and a vase of daffodils sits prettily in the alcove on my mantle, all of which fail to charm. Earlier this evening, even the books by which I while away most of my free time, fail to appeal. Maybe I have a chemical imbalance or the allergies have taken hold. Perhaps I have been bitten by Churchill’s black dog, though I am not prone to such.  I rattle on so about it only because this is a very odd state I find myself in. I thought I would offer you some soothing music in place of a normal post, but I have been vexed even at that–I must pay to do so and am much too…frugal to do so. Rattling on does please me I realize. On Sunday, I went to pick up my daughter from an activity and since she had not yet arrived I spoke to a couple also waiting for their daughter. It wasn’t until afterwards I realized that I had done nearly all the talking, mainly because I hardly paused for breath. And now…taciturn. Well, the pendulum shall swing back I hope. Until then please enjoy the opening of Rumpole of the Bailey, he who does exasperation like no other.

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