A rebel without a clue.

Yesterday I am relieved it is gone. Battle over battle won. No alcohol was a tough confrontation. But I was early to bed and managed to switch off around ten. Time to let the melancholy since Thursday drift away on the sea as another light shines taking me upon the current towards the home of ancient Celtic Christianity. The origins of monastic life began with Saint Anthony, who was from a very privileged and wealthy family, by the time he reached 34 he'd decided the life he lived wasn't working for him and he sought a simpler diviner life away from the madding crowd in the desert: easier to do when you're rich, connected, dependable. The call of monastic existence always appeals to me when I am slowly oblate by the maddened crowd. They must come to F&U like bears to a salmon spawning. Gone is a relaxing chilled steady Sunday; across the road the Catholics play, sign, sigh, prey and hallucinate their God is present in the slim piece of wafer. Where is this comet, a...

Dumb aren't I? The aches of alcoholism in my hands and feet are all I have to show for a wreckless few nights. It's the gripes and shits that my body is going through that thrusts alcohol to the front of my mind. The only solution to my current dementia is more beer but that's just an illusion. Today is another day and I am going to walk off of some my illusionary guilt. Those Berghaus walking trainers went back as the insoles disintegrated in three weeks so I might have to survive a while on my ancient Merrells from 2001. Never worn for walking really, entirely leisure in my previous obese incarnation. Mum returned to forcefully remind me of my bankruptcy in 2007: fifth time this week. Maybe she wonders why I leave the room as soon as she comes in? Currently walking route 66 without the hound. Makes a nice change. Just testing the shoes to see if they're up to Ireland. All very banal stuff, but I managed to tracked down Dan's daughter, Laura, online just so ...