I’m suffering from word fatigue. There too many of them and they never do precisely what you want. Or worse, you think they have, and when you come back later they’ve shuffled themselves around, so that what you thought was a good punchy sentence turns out to be so dull your eyes are physically unable to read it all the way through. Words are laughing at me. Trying to control them is like trying to tether a thousand ants and teach them a Busby Berkeley routine.
Perhaps I should cease this frustrating and probably pointless exercise and learn to play the piano instead. It won’t be any easier, but at least nobody expects me to be any good at the piano. Or perhaps I could express myself through the medium of dance – no, not dance, I have all the physical grace of a hand puppet operated by a five-year-old. Sculpture? Weaving? Making the perfect mushroom risotto?
I think today I shall find creative expression through singing Old MacDonald Has a Farm to my six-month-old daughter. She thinks I’m brilliant no matter what I do, provided I bribe her with mashed banana.
