And the beat goes on

Yes, Dear Readers, it’s me again. Two years on but not much further forward in that all sense or nonsensicality is still evading me. Despite well-meaning and robust encouragement from the bestest of friends and allies to “just write!”, my own stringent standards of at least mildly titter-inducing loquaciousness stubbornly refuses to rise from the deep slumber from whence it disappeared almost two years ago. I am staring into a hollow abyss which has swallowed any literary inspiration I ever had, and am at a loss to know how recapture the muse to amuse. I am also consumed by an irrational hatred for a Poet, long dead who had the audacity to pen lines to a poem in celebration of Autumn. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” bears absolutely NO resemblance to the dark, cold, rain-sodden world outside my window and I am filled with an irrational urge to grab John Keats and shake him until his teeth rattle – a vain hope as the dead do not rattle!! Bah Humbug!!!