I am thinking, not for the first time, that the End may well be nigh. It has rained and drizzled for more weeks than I can count and the builder who was scheduled to do some work to the outside of Signs Cottage has given up sending funny texts about Noah's Ark and probably decided that as we are living in the last days fixing the peeling paint situation on our well-rotted window frames should not be high on his list of priorities. The cat has arthritis and the fur on her back is in a shocking state because she is unable to wash herself there. We give her medicine but the vet says she also needs to have her fur clipped. The late roses that appeared so exuberantly have wilted and hung their heads before their prime. I bought a pair of Emu boots 'gainst the spectre of another snowed-up winter and had to take them back because they were too small, but the next size up was too big. It all begins to add up, doesn't it? And further, there is nothing at time of posting - apart from the cat's fur, but this will be remedied - that I need to be properly anxious about. My children are both well and prospering, as much as anyone in rented accommodation in the Smoke in this god-forsaken recession (which Cameron now says isn't a recession any more but we know better) can prosper. The almost-ninety-year-old mater carries on with her twice weekly pilates classes and is going with her spouse on a late autumn cruise. Our boiler, despite its great age, shows no sign of packing up. And yet, and yet - "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved" (Jeremiah 8:20). You get my drift.
I have said as much before and it bears repeating: I have long suspected that it is only my anxiety that prevents the world from falling into imminent destruction; in which case, dear reader, you should be worried, or at least doing everything possible to be saved a.s.a.p. I have spoken.