It's Not The Falling That Hurts...

It's the landing.

Obviously.

Apologies, dear readers, all 40 or so of you. I have fallen off the wagon of late, slipped the traices. Got lazy. Been betrayed by technology.

Got behind.

My continued mission to moan about feeling unwell culminated in me failing at all my tasks this month. I have run very little, if at all; I have succumbed to the evil tobacco weed, and I have gotten behind with this monstrosity.

In my defence, I have been feeling increasingly unwell, a fact I am blaming on my anti-retroviral meds, which seem to produce a constant background of feeling shit; a sort of physiological equivalent of drizzle; I had lined some posts up for delayed publication, but that seems to have failed.

But it's time to get back up again.

Back up, stub out the butt, jog on and then write about it.

Good luck everyone.

Series Of Dreams

Well, I'm back.

Flail is ongoing, and I've been away for a couple of weeks, which I am proposing as my excuse for my lack of output over the last month.

More realistically, I have to face up to the fact that maybe i've just lost the will to blog; maybe this has run it's course.

I'm not sure, but there do appear to be a few punters still interested in the general gibbering I produce.

So I'll try again; but if I fail again, I may have to face facts.

We'll see. I'm back on nights this week, so may have some tales to tell.

I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, a few non medical tales?