…close the blog, it will be on a Sunday. Listening to T S Eliot speak his own poetry is like floating off to Heaven. Betjeman, Wordsworth, Blake, Keats, Larkin & all the other voices I enjoy have their high places but today’s Prufrock just did it for me. Nothing more to be said.
Two years ago, in ‘the old days’, comments came thick and fast but now, it’s sometimes like a mad old woman is ranting to herself about imagined deceptions. I don’t know whether it’s the new Disqus comments system that’s had an effect (I know that some comments weren’t published but I couldn’t get them back – sorry).
So, just another day, and just another round of diary-keeping – marking what I think is important – and remembering to download it each night so my children will know that Mother Knew Best (the ultimate voice from beyond!) It may not be in my lifetime; it may be in decades ahead that people finally realise that “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” (the Bible, not Samuel L Jackson ).
We’ve been in the handcart going to hell for some time now and very few seem to know or care. I sometimes wonder at the – well, let’s just say that I wonder. Quite a lot.
Here’s my X-Factor – you know how it will end but you still clasp your hand to your mouth in horror and shed a tear: