An infinite quantity of primates

Maybe it's because of the summer; maybe it's because most of you have better things to do with your lives, but I have noticed that - of late - the onerous task of composing and publishing blog-posts seems to be weighing most heavily on the shoulders of a handful of mutual followers (me, Cro, Weaver, Cher, etc.). Sarah Toa can be excused because when she is not out catching fish, she is busy composing stuff which people will actually want to read so much that they will be prepared to pay for the privilege.

To illustrate a point, when I missed one day last week due to entertaining Thomas the Dentist, I received no less than three private emails sent to establish whether or not I was still alive. There was also public speculation when the comments box of my last post turned into a sort of forum in which various theories on how I died were bandied about.

When I look back at all the drivel I have put out over the last few years (this is the 1457th post!) I realise that if I had placed all the words in a slightly different order, I could have written about three best-sellers by now.

The result of this relentless out-pouring of gobshite is that I am now reduced to telling stories about events that happened around 35 years ago. I am scraping the bottom of the barrel.

You need not worry, though. It is impossible to burn yourself out without being on fire in the first place. The best is yet to come, but I don't have any ETA.

Now I really must go out and catch some fish.