Stir crazy

Worked monastically for about twelve hours today, and apart from ordering some postcards with a picture of Skelton Yawngrave on them, achieved nothing.

Some days are like this, and by the end of it you end up hating everything you have ever written. This gloom magnified by the steady rain. This also means Calliope was hanging about being fractious and creating trouble.

By the evening, even I was feeling stir crazy. Sloped off for a solitary beer in the Battle of Trafalgar to read a book of poems called Perched on Nothing's Branch, by Attila József. An early suicide. A couple of his last works full of train imagery, which was the way he offed himself. Nice.

Mystery fish death. Sat on my gold sofa at lunch, and noticed one of my gold rosy barbs suddenly acting as if it were being attacked, and within minutes it was being grazed on by one of its former tankmates as it lay dying. I dispatched it sadly. Until moments before, it had seemed perfectly healthy, and the water quality good, and other denizens of the tank in robust health.

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