Sunday, 20th. September 2026

Up late, shower, tea, read the news, feed the fish, cappuccino and relax. It is now approaching 11 o’clock and I remain in a state of inertia if not full-blown listlessness. I am not entirely sure why, but I suspect there are a number of reasons coalescing into a swamp of torpor, and I really want out.

One of the reasons for my current malaise is major life mistakes, two of which haunt me and which were the result of kindness on my part. A second is not knowing how long I can live in the building I have made home, and a third is waiting for my life to finally settle down, to reach the place I never seem able to reach. For many years I have felt that I am heading towards something but never actually getting there. I sometimes characterise the ‘something’ as a place but that is not quite right. There is an expectation at the core of it that, so far as I can tell, centres around me being me.

I am not me. I am not in the place I should be and I am not with the people I should be with. I crave conversation and learning and thrive on sharing knowledge and wisdom. I enjoy neon-lit city streets at night; good beer, good wine, good food, good conversation. Cinemas, theatres, live music, museums. I also enjoy peace and quiet and time on my own.

My life is desperately lopsided, with almost one-hundred percent of it enjoying peace and quiet and time on my own. I generally leave home for about six hours a week and, if I am lucky, I may engage in conversation for just two hours. That is not enough and often falls short of expectations.

It would seem that, if ever I am to find peace, I must somehow reconcile myself to my existence – to simply accept it for what it is. But for a glass half-full sort of person I am feeling remarkably alone in the suburbs of a Devon town. At least I have myself to talk to, and I do that rather a lot.