I guess it always is, but sometimes the joints show. The calendar is running ahead of me, or behind, I'm not sure which. Yesterday I went to THE NORMAN CONQUESTS, the trilogy of plays by Alan Ayckbourn, all related, each complete, a marathon of viewing and thinking. I threw myself under the wheels of pleasure (to paraphrase Christopher Fry), and so I missed yesterday's blog - but I wrote the end of the day before's blog just before midnight, so now it's early morning the next day and I'm still on yesterday. So, as I say, the time is out of joint. I've said it before: we take in more knowledge, entertainment, distraction, information and yes, emotional content in a week than people in other centuries, even other decades were exposed to in six months or a year. It's not the taking in, it's the absorption. We need time to assimilate. So today - do I have time to assimilate? No. I'm facing another glorious assault on the senses. Does anyone remember or know about THE YOUNG VISITERS (sic)? Around the turn of the 20th century a nine-year-old girl wrote a novel, a romance, from the pov of a child, sophisticated but unworldly. Mr Salteena, I remember, was the name of the hero. Anyway, the story was a record of parties and dances and lovely events, with lots of ice cream. In fact, "life was a round of gaierty (sic)." [I'm having trouble getting Spelchek (sic) to accept my spelling deviations. Do I complain when it puts words in my copy?] The book was published, and re-published; I saw it a few years ago. The little girl's name was Daisy Ashford - I'm sure of Daisy, not quite so sure of Ashford. Anyway, the phrase , "a round of gaierty" became a line we cherished and used, and I still use it. My life lately has been a round of gaierty and it's difficult to absorb. Anon, anon. MY power is running low.