The Times

Despite the actual content of it all — particularly the wretched excuse of directly below —, my recent activities have, I'm proud to say, stomped on Harry's, quantity-wise. His Sundays Are Painful post looms high as sign of defeat; its unchanged position on his page indicating all too vividly that there's been no progress of late. So for the glutton's moment, Harry is Flat Stanley on the footpath, while my hollow, insubstantial but nonetheless tall monument casts out of work actors as shadows across his unstately home. But I shall not gloat, for a winning environment for yours faithfully is a barren environment for the same, and, excepting Harry's recent burst, a barren environment is what it's been for long, long time.

It bubbles down to a self-answering question which most in this field would rather avoid asking: who cares? It's pointless to harp on about lack of activity, as activity for activity's sake is, as I excellently demonstrate, a bunk occupation. And complaining about a lack of activity for activity's sake is an even bunker one, if that were possible. To put it another way, turn the heat up and all that's left are a few charred morsels of insignificance. There's nothing here to set even the most seasoned whiskers on edge, nor will there be, but at least my complaining fills the odd gap in between the usual gunk. And no one really wants other people ending up with awful things like Most Of Al anyway, so perhaps it's a blessing that I'm the only necessity beast.

In lieu of all this, I may even waltz over to Harry's severely squashed form and treat him to a drop of oil. Maybe then he'll squeak right. Still, it makes you wonder, doesn't it? Wonder why I, and, to a lesser extent, anyone, even bother(s). Well, no reason immediately leaps to mind, but perhaps I just want to put some gristle back into people's lives. And what nobler pursuit is there than that?