15 August, 2006

Turn again

I'm sure I would not be mistaken were I to surmise that whoever looks in on this blog from time to time must think I am, by and large, pretty miserable. Or rather, that I always post about largely miserable things. And in particular that I lead a largely miserablist life.

I can't counter and criticise your opinions, of course. I can't argue that you have no right to hold them. What I can and will say in my defence, however, is that writing here, as I do, late in the evening, produces a particular kind of tone and style of blog that would assuredly be different were I to write, say, early in the morning.

I invariably add to this blog when I am tired, feeling low and in that bleak, washed-out period just before sleep. This is not good.

It generates posts which are snippy, sour and po-faced. It makes me look like a grouchy old man who sees no good in anything. It catches me when I am at my weakest and most intolerant. And it cannot help but, as with the daily written diary which I keep and have kept for almost 20 years, leave an impression of someone forever out of sorts with the world.

The trouble is, there is no other time of the day when I can write here. I simply don't have the time or the means to do so. There are some entries, true, which have appeared during daylight hours and which I've been able to compose with a clearer, fresher mind on weekends or in moments of snatched respite at work. But they remain in the minority. As, I suspect, they always will.

So as a change I am going to devote tonight's post to recording two instances of positive things.

I say devote, but I have as yet wittered on solely about wholly negative matters. So enough of that, and instead rewind back to 6.15pm this evening, when an elderly Chinese lady was having difficulty carrying her shopping trolley into Leicester Square station, asked me for help, and I happily responded, lugging the great unwieldly item all the way down two flights of steps and into the booking hall. And then I went back for the shopping trolley (ho ho).

Then, a few minutes later, a befuddled American tourist approached me for advice on navigating the Northern Line. I gladly offered up my four penn'orth, neatly and succinctly explaining the way the line separates into two at Euston and that he was on the wrong branch and this is how he could rectify the problem. He seemed very grateful, as did the Chinese lady, and in both instances I went on my way in the belief I had made two people's days that bit easier.

I have nothing further to add to these tales, other than to say if one good turn deserves another, heaven knows what two good turns merits. It'd be nice, though, were it to show up in my life pretty soon.


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