I am capable of losing my temper in ways that are neither dignified nor character-enhancing. Most of the time I can shrug off the irritations of life, but there lurks in the back of my mind the suspicion that one day my mouth and attitude are going to get me into the sort of trouble which cannot be defused with an apology. Yesterday, I swore at a zombie driver who thought it acceptable to jump a red light and turn onto the pedestrian-crossing I was on. I'm none too pleased with my choice of words, given the zombie was female. (Her male passenger seemed ready to leap out and fight me over what I'd said and I'm glad there was some moderation to my language). But the incident left me wondering if I am ever going to grow old gracefully and take zombies in my stride. Currently, on average, I am faced with dealing with at least three of them whilst out cycling each morning and it is only by regularly blogging about them that I've realised how frequently they attempt me harm. I must learn to accept – and avoid – them and help reduce my blood pressure. Has it really taken me fifty-four years to see the light?
In with the love. Out with the hate.
In with the love. Out with the hate.
A signpost, tucked in the depths of a hedge, has given me the title of my next novel. Needless to say, you will only be made aware of this after I've finished writing it. Yep, I think it's that good of a title ...
Don't do stupid – it's just not clever.
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