It's cold and raining. Christmas, with all its attendant hassles, is looming on the horizon like a big loomy thing. Driving a car, at £1.10 per litre, seems to involve being mugged on garage forecourts on a semi-regular basis. There is too much month left at the end of the money.
But none of this matters.
I'm overweight. Or undertall. Walking up stairs tends to be an issue. Although when I get up there, I tend to forget why it was I went in the first place.
However, it's not a cause for concern.
Politics seems to be a case of the grumpy Scottish bloke and the other one with the chin deficiency syndrome shouting at each other while the rest of us go to Hell in a Tesco trolley. There are lots of people who don't like each other - to the extreme - because of what they say someone said to someone else, in another language, that no-one was writing down at the time, several thousand years ago.
I am not worried.
My driveway is full of rotting leaves and yet I have no trees. I have about nine weeks worth of work to do in December. And the cat, for reasons best known to himself, has taken to peeing on the sofa.
I couldn't care less.
Because it turns out that there are structures - bloody massive ones, too - tugging at the very fabric of the universe. And everything - you, me, the shouty people and my damp sofa - is being pulled toward these structures at the rate of two million miles per hour.
I could still use some Febreze, though.