A slightly less brave new world

After trying to convince myself that I wanted to live in my own castle for the last several weeks, and after sitting high atop my invented throne, admiring my own handiwork, I had a moment of clarity - or rather the thought “why the hell am I doing this?” An hour later, my blog (the castle) had vanished in a cloud of smoke and debris, and re-appeared “as new” within the halls of Substack - among the great and the good of the publishing and broadcasting industry. Of course they’re all trying to monetise their writing - I’ll be doing nothing of the sort. I have kept the “new” name - Recursive Words - because it sums up the idiocy I record pretty well. An almost daily journey into the same day, over and over again. A rotating conveyor belt of thoughts, ideas and fears. Anyway. There it is. I’m sitting in the dark of the junk room writing this, sipping a colossal can of cider I found in the fridge earlier this evening. I’m rubbish at drinking - it’s gone straight to my head. Could the “two beers” moniker be shortened to “one beer” ? We’re heading to London tomorrow for a day of museums and comic book shops with my middle daughter. She was 21 last week. I have no idea how that happened - she will always be that unsure five year old in my head - clinging to my leg on the infant school playground. I have to buy her a new wallet - on account of accidentally putting her last one in the washing machine (it was in her coat pocket). I’m blaming the cat - he weed on her coat, causing it to go into the washing machine in the first place. Of course it wouldn’t have been on the floor if a certain somebody had hung it up instead of ejecting it on her way through the house. I’m not allowed to say that though, because that’s “getting at her”. I have to buy a new one, and keep my mouth shut. I’m looking forward to visiting the comic book shop though. And maybe Covent Garden. And a record shop or two. We’ll see.