I can't stand it. Why isn't anything ever easy? Why am I so stupid? Why was I born at the wrong time? That's it, that's the reason, that's why I am so inept at coping with the minutiae (I can spell!), of living today. I was not intended to be alive in this, or the last century . Who said, "Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour!"? (Note the impeccable punctuation.) William Wordsworth in the poem London 1802: "Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour" - I have need of thee. (It was really England who needed Milton in the poem but I need him more.)

There doesn't seem to be one thing I attempt to do, other than writing, on my computer(s) that doesn't turn into a vicious conundrum that I go around in circles and deletes and saves and options and help messages trying to solve. My computer is really a glorified typewriter for all I can do with it. I won't go into detail. Suffice to say that today started well until I got bogged down in a post and then in a search for a number (different project). Soon I have to tackle a play manuscript in its several incarnations, and find the most recent and relevant scenes and put it together and then figure out how to PDF it. (I never remember.) Oh, how I miss Stephen Leacock! Stephen Leacock, thou shouldst be living at this hour. He would understand my difficulty, I mean he wouldn't understand my difficulty but he would understand how I feel about my difficulty, He couldn't solve it either. I feel like the mother in Fry's The Lady's Not For Burning. Remember she said, "Oh, for a holiday in a complete vacuum." With my luck and lack of expertise I would have trouble finding the On-switch. Or Off.

Off would be good.

Yesterday disappeared. I missed it in my diary. NOTE: a diary is different from (than? - which do you prefer?) (There might be a Canadian-American difference here) a blog.

This morning I was slow. My body seems to know it's Sunday even if I don't. So when I finally sat down with coffee and recapped last night, that was my full report for Saturday. That's okay. My diary is not really a diary. As diaries go it's worthless. My diary is really a long long long conversation with my late (very late) husband who died - lo - these 44 years ago. My diary is coffee time with Bill, not much use to anyone doing social historical research.

I used to keep - attempt - a diary a long long time ago but I wasn't faithful and it was what I called a Bleat Book, just bleating and moaning about having no time to write. Then suddenly I had all the time in the world and so I started coffee time with Bill and a pen. That's my diary. Now these days I don't seem to have any time at all because I'm so busy writing I don't have time for anything else. My blog has become the recipient of bleats: My Bleat Blog.

Be careful what you wish for.