A sad repeat.

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I just flicked down over my previous Mylot musings this evening, a bit like Churchill reviewing his war diaries but with more angst and less blood. The entry a year ago was this: “My nocturnal imaginings are becoming more audacious and preposterous each night, but at least I usually wake up from them giggling. Last night I was dressed in a tailcoat and dickie bow, sat at a grand piano on the stage of some provincial concert hall. I was accompanying the wife of the president of Ireland, and we duetted several times. Our repertoire was limited, and she (Sabina) had a bit of a sore throat but refused to gargle TCP, popularly referred to in Ireland as Tom Cat’s P1ss. We received a standing ovation but as a man I felt that I could not take any of the credit because I had no ovaries.” I haven’t matured since then.