My dearest wife recently re-ignited her passion for blogging. I have nothing against blogging (although looking at the paucity of pieces reflected here, I can see how you might be led to believe that). I just take long to have ideas. What has happened, however, is that I have (unwittingly) become a character in her story of our lives together. In that guise, I have been dubbed 'the philosopher'. This has raised all sorts of existential issues. In the first place, what is this thing; am I this thing ; or should I aspire to be this thing? But more interestingly, I now have a dual existence: I am both the mule who goes to work every day in the hope that a Boeingful of money will, one day, miraculously, drop from the sky and land softly in my lap (neatly packaged in $100 000 wafers) - and I am also this slightly mysterious, tall, not-so-dark, mildly-strong silent philosopher type currently inhabiting this digital parallel universe in which all things are possible. So I have become both the author and the subject of my many lives. I am beginning to understand why cats just don't care. It's all too hard and makes my head hurt. An ice-cold beer (or is it bear?) would be really good roundabout now.
