Boxing day my new chair bust. Six months old and the seat has cracked and the bolts affixing it to the stand has fallen out. On close inspection, I see the seat was made from cheapo plywood. For an £80 chair, it's depressing but also depressingly familiar. My chair is the single most important part of my writing. If I'm uncomfortable, I can't get drift away into my mental zone. I can't get into my zone, I can't write. If I can't write, the blog doesn't get filled.
Not that anybody will miss me but it means I won't be writing anything until Amazon come and pick up the old chair, issue a refund, and I can buy a replacement. No idea how long all that will take but the chair I'm currently sitting on makes my back hurt after five minutes so I'm typing this and heading off.
In the meantime, recent words largely ignored over Christmas. Here I moan about an archbishop acting like a politician and here I moan about a politician acting like an archbishop. Here I jibber on about panto.
Finally, here I expend a serious amount of effort into explaining the Trump shrug.