Tuesday is dead.

A brittle novel given as a gift in 1980, perhaps read once, and destined for Oxfam? My first encounter with Doris Lessing - and I think it's a ghost story (The Memoirs of a Survivor)? Not the kind which sets out to frighten with All My Love, Paddy, XX written in heavy blue Biro.

Trying to second guess the narrative structure, which alternates between 'worlds', in a darkened room, where Mistletoe and Wine and tinsel increase my melancholia towards Christmas.

Is there anywhere in this vapid civilisation that doesn't cling to the emptiness of elaboration and the drill of a drift-mine dirge. December comes along once per year matching the lament marching in my heart and, as it beats in sorrow to the shallow mournful rhythm, I hope it fucks off soon!