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Pics, or it didn't happen

I am not a man blessed with a great deal of what might be termed free time. I'm phrasing this carefully because I'm equally not a man who lives an onerous life. I work a 50 hour week, which, whilst a fair whack, also includes a lot of time stood about drinking coffee, writing menus and, most of the rest of the time, banging out plates of food, a process I find immensely enjoyable. Time at home is divided largely between hanging out with my children, again, not a task one could reasonably class as a bind; housework, which, as it comes under the banner of keeping everything on an even keel is generally something I approach zestily (and in the chastening knowledge that I maybe do about 30% of it, so best not to whinge, eh) and, every once in a while, doing a spot of this sort of thing.

Yes, dear reader. I fit you in when I can. I know this comes as a shock, and I'm sorry I had to tell you like this, but really, you must have known. Like an adulterous husband desperate to be caught out so he can have his sturm und drang moment of high narrative I've been dropping hints, like posting wildly intermittently for, ooh fifteen years now?

Yes, sadly, free time is at something of a premium at Coastalblog Towers, but this is not to say that it doesn't exist. It does (hey, I'm writing this), but is, all too often, frittered away on a spree of clicks, I'll sit here, hoping against twenty years of bitter experience that something magical will occur and I'll suddenly become the writer I've always imagined I would be in my head. Which, naturally enough, doesn't occur (it strikes me at this point that I could easily turn this into a post entitles "On failure", but I shan't, for reasons which shall become clear) because I get sidetracked by the magical internet and its cornucopia of options of righteous outrage (it turns out, you will be shocked to learn, that many people have values which fail to chime with your own, more seriously, some of them are criminals, but best not to dwell on it, you'll drive yourself nuts. If you fancy a spot of the old moral outrage, let's go for a pint, I find the internet counter-productive for that sort of thing).

The point which I, with habitual clumsiness, am lumpenly trying to make, is that I spend far too much of what little free time I have trying to achieve things (this is beyond the various tasks and whatnot of Coastalblog passim), which, of course, begs the question why.
The highlight of my year (well, the one suitable for public consumption) to date has been getting back on my split, going "Ah, fuck it" and sitting down and watching an old episode of Coast. I wish I was joking. This desire to achieve, when it meets what I can only describe as an innate laziness leads to a dichotomatic sprial the end result of which is, well, this.

So, what was the fucking point of that, then? Well, I dunno. Have more tea, I think.

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