What Ho Proles!
Sorry for disappearing off the radar like that yesterday. The explosion of two days ago has left me deaf and with a throbbing headache. Yesterday, I spent in bed, as far away from the real world as possible. I did, however, read a short little novella, called ‘No One Writes to the Colonel’ by this Gabriel Garcia Marquez fellow, recommended to me by the Momentary Academic. It was a witty little tale about a chap who receives little in the way of post but is preoccupied by the chicken he keeps tied to the leg of his bed. I’m sure it had some deeper meaning behind it, but for a man in my weakened state, I enjoyed the bleak outlook on life. Without spoiling it for you, I have a very great sympathy for the Colonel’s final words in the book. So much so, I would like to make it my first Murgatroid book recommendation.
Today, I will spend with the sport. I think I can manage it, but to be frank, although I thought I’d got away with barely a scratch compared with My Man, it would seem that in the long term, this concussion of mine is much more debilitating than any injury he suffered. It would appear that he go about his business without an eyebrow to his name and it doesn’t bother him. Makes him look rather odd, however. But let this be a warning to all of you: never underestimate the power of digestive gasses.
Until the headache lifts...
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