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…bottom of the hill of the front of what now seems like my thousand-year project, and it’s looking a very long way up to the end… and I haven’t even thought about sleeves....

When I summoned up the strength to pick it up once again last night, I tried to distract myself by watching an elderly warhorse of substantial experience offer very good advice to a studiedly oafish young hothead on television.  And even though I do say so myself, that’s an extraordinarily charitable depiction of such a wildly destructive, self absorbed goon.  And being a goon, along with being a monumental drain on communal resources, is about the only function I could ever envisage him performing ably  (and familiarity with his particular brand of bottomless pit of charmless hassle is sadly second nature to me)(don’t ask).  But stick to the job in hand, I told myself.  Don't waste your energies.  

The on screen warhorse was a good role model for decorum, remaining calm and respectful despite what she was dealing with, while I twisted and clicked furiously and ruminated that even a brick bat – which would be pretty much up his own style colourway actually - wouldn’t get through that numbskull the fact that sometimes easy answers are not the answer.  And I considered how I was never cut out for a career as a diplomat, and how incredibly TIrED I am of sitting it out until the inevitable road to Damascus conversion occurs, where anyone still alive despite this joker's worst efforts, and trapped in his slipstream, will be bored into the ground about how he was once the alpha and omega of impetuosity but now has seen the light… That is, if he doesn't manage to hoist himself on his own petard first, which is another very likely and much more cheering outcome... and in case you're feeling sorry for him, don't: this is no destruction is creation situation

Then suddenly I had an easy answer of my own and hit the off switch, nya-haha.