Life Goes On And Time Waits For No Man

One of the disadvantages suffered by those of us living life in a rut is that one tends to be overtaken by others not so hampered. It's of little consequence when viewed in the context of the grand scheme of things (even lemmings flourish in despite of their collective stupidity - and yes, I'm aware that's a 'myth') but for the individual it can be bloody irritating and, my being also, in the words Of A A Milne, 'a bear of very little brain', it can also be a little dispiriting personally.

I'm stuck in a rut and it's bloody annoying to see those who are not so hampered racing ahead.
I lived for a while in Northumberland, more specifically in Berwick-upon-Tweed, England's bastion against the Jock (which has never been part of Scotland - a lemming like myth - though occasionally seized by the 'keng of Scorts', and always retaken) and for eight and a half years, but had to move from there when my money (much of which, a disturbingly large amount, in the last few months, was lent to me without surety by angela) eventually ran out (I put forty of my last fifty quid into the tank of my van and drove myself, with one eye on the temperature gauge and the other half on the road and half on the very dodgy fuel gauge, to Mrs Gruff's doorstep, there to gather my resouces for my return), and wish to live in Northumberland again but hope of that is now more distant than ever, thanks to 'Wife In The North' whose acute commercial acumen has served to render my dreams even less realisable than they were when I left seventeen months ago.

I retain a 'presence' in the county, at a price, but my thoughts turn to disposal in the interests of economy, as has so often been necessary before, as a way of reducing my monthly outgoings. This is becoming tedious, principally because, at fifty two, I'm now all too aware that tempus does indeed fugit and one does eventually run out of time in which to realise one's dreams, though the effort, sweat and these days, the aches and 'pains', not to mention the expense, almost balance the scales. As I age I find it harder to retain the optimism that sustained me through similar periods in earlier years and the certainty that the success of WITN must inevitably inspire a lemming like rush of emulatresses (word copyright of W G Gruff, 2008), with entirely predictable effects on property prices and rents, merely adds to my gloom.

Reading this twenty four hours after writing it I find that I have no idea what I was talking about when I referred to balancing scales. In vino veritas, undoubtedly, but what is the point of truth if it is subsequently unfathomable?