To rise each Friday morning at 6.00 is a pleasure and a privilege. Fryday is a labour of love and an essay of edification. It keeps me in touch vicariously with the dismaying and the dismal such as George Bush, Helen Clark and Hamilton. It allows me to acknowledge and highlight delights such as farm, friends and wife. Fryday lifts my spirits and vanquishes the hangover—or at least I hope and trust it does for I definitely have much of the latter this morning after indulging too much of the former last night.
But there comes a time, a Fryday, where I have nothing to write, nothing to contribute. A failure to amuse. I and you dear reader are left with drivel and dross. Such is the case this morning. I have risen at 6.00, the Muse has not. She remains like many women (though none within my close acquaintance) unresponsive and cold, with a permanent headache.
Is she teasing therefore when she offers up in a whisper her sole contribution that I should pay tribute and thank two other women? If I mention “yesterday” those women will know who they are and know why I cannot elaborate. They also know all about labours of love and are indeed much more adept at coping with one than I seemingly am today. They enrich my life—something which, sadly, you may feel Fryday has singularly failed to do for you today.
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Now playing: Johnny Cash - Closing Medley (Folsom Prison Blues/I Walk The Line/Ring Of Fire/The Rebel - Johnny Yuma)
via FoxyTunes
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