just did a bloody stupid thing – jumped on my bicycle and cycled for at least an hour, but it feels like six. And now I’m sitting here wondering how I will make it through the rest of the day with my body screeching things like “exhaustion”, “sleep”,  “fucked”, “shagged” at me. My muscles are already beginning to shrivel and are sucking up all the oxygen my brain needs to think… It immediately brought on thoughts of my immanent mortality, the pain of aging, so I started writing a poem about getting old. Although maybe, in hindsight, I should write one about getting fit…

talking of oxygen for the brain, or food for thought, i.e. the lack of it, it was always my contention that the last twenty years have seen a consistent and coordinated attack on critical thought in Britain, as witnessed by the ever increasing cutbacks suffered by Philosophy departments across the board. As far fetched as this might appear, it seems that my worst fears have been confirmed as there is now a charity to help professional philosophers in their hour of need.

I am now going to lie down…