The last word?

Even though much of what I have self-published on this blog, which I started nearly 10 years ago, has probably been rubbish, at best, you can’t fault the quantity. 4647 posts so far and another 703 which didn’t make it to the self-publishing stage. If you think my blogs have been bad, just imagine how terrible were the ones that never made it? But does there come a time when you think – or rather, I think – have I gone as far as I can? And that’s where I am today.

Still, I am very grateful to the 22 people who read some of the 4647 posts yesterday, two of whom were in the USA, one in China and others who could have been me. Talk about post Brexit trade deals with the rest of the world. Surely, that’s a small miracle in itself? If I could only make inroads into the modest group of people who aren’t yet reading my words lacking in wisdom, at the last count some 7.9 billion, I could be onto something!

I am going to be candid with you: writing is my therapy, the added antidepressant, my vocation, my unpaid job, something I could not live meaningfully without. I have put everything I have into it. I knew, not deep down but on the surface, that I would never make it, never make any money from it, never attract a major audience but in contrast to everything else in my life, I persevered against not just overwhelming odds but a bookmaker who would be too embarrassed to take a bet on my chances of success.

Am I still standing, as Elton John might put it? Well, what else is there? Since I left my last job, I am not just unemployed – don’t worry: I’m not on benefits – but unemployable. My one O level rules me out of most jobs, 39 years in the civil service plus six and a bit working for dysfunctional charities probably rule me out of the rest. When applying for anything, I am being brutally honest, including full details of my mental health, and let’s be honest about this: how would you feel about employing someone like me, old, mental, with barely a decent educational qualification to my name? You wouldn’t, would you?

So, we plough on, to all intents and purposes raging against the dying of the light and it is dying. I’ve said this before, but if I last as long as my mum, I’ve got 10 more years, if I live as long as my dad, it’s 16. If it’s as long as my paternal grandfather, I’d best call Co-op funeral care today.

I’m sticking with Eclectic Blue for the time being and I’ll aim for 5000 posts. That would be a minor achievement in itself. The drug of writing does work, just. The other drugs, just, too. Life’s a bitch, then you die. This is my life and yours, too.