26th March 2019 "Wot he wrote."

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Tuesday 26th 39-46F, dark grey with a light breeze. Today's weather will be all day sunshine. Or all day grey. Eeny meany miney mo. TV2 or DMI? Off we [jolly well] go. A walk to the lanes in a cold north-westerly was closely followed by a ride to the village to shop. I trundled at an effrortless 20mph into the village and crawled back with rarely a sign of 10mph on the flight deck.

I do have one word of cycling advice: Don't take advantage of a vast, pig's muck spreader on a dusty road. Not even if you fancy a bit of uphill pacing while sheltering from the headwind gale! If the stench doesn't get you then the dust certainly will! I topped out at 14mph before admitting defeat.

I was just thinking: If the NSA is monitoring my "seriously doubtful" content, I do hope, for their sakes, and their genocidal god, that they aren't following my key strokes. Even after 50 years of constant typing, with 3-4 fingers, the number of typos per sentence does not diminish. Imagine the torture of following my virtual progress across the page? Snail racing at least has the element of competition. I compete with myself to finish a line.

I tried to learn to touch-type years ago but could never manage it. At least the levers don't cross and get all tangled up any more. As they used to do on my old typewriters. For those still in any doubt, my scribbling is a life-long habit. I used to scribble endless, illegible essays at school. 11 sides of riveting stuff was handed back to me with raised eyes. Without so much as a minus mark to my name.

In one exam my paper was returned, unmarked, as indistinguishable from an accidental scrawl. Any plans to ue this skill to become a doctor were [fortunately] hampered by my inability to remember anything from one moment to the next. It seemed that doctoring was mostly based on a good memory and sorting facts. I seriously doubt that anyone was less qualified than I at these tasks.

My handwriting never recovered from the change over from pencil to what passed for a scratchy, dip pen and ink pot back in the middle of the last century. Biros came later and were not supportive of any, deeply hidden, latent talent I might ever have had for forming words in a readable form.

"They" invented the typewriter just in time to save me from myself. Though my colleagues in the office, who suffered my painfully slow and deliberate typing, should have been knighted for their tolerance. It was no wonder I was never very popular.

Writing illegibly is a heavy burden on life's progress where quantity always outweighed understandable content. On the rare occasions when The Head Gardener read any of my output she said I left too many gaps in the narrative. It's true. I live the story as it unfolds. I make it up as I go along and entertain myself with my own words. Having the functional memory of a distracted gnat does not make for <cough> "great writing." More like slapstick writing in my case.

Believe it or not, most of "what he wrote" is actually meant to be slightly funny. But, if like me, you can't remember a single jok,e then humour on the page is unlikely to translate into real life. How could it? The things I find funny are rarely shared by others. I try to be funny on forums and nobody ever gets "the joke" and rewards me with a smiley. Or only very rarely. So I tried posting through the medium of emoji and that fell flat too. Why am I the only one who finds a smiley amusing in itself? They often say far more than any hieroglyph. I love the demented grins and loony winks. They, well some of them, have such "character!" They speak volumes I could never manage alone. 😎

If you find my words amusing then do try to laugh with me. Rather than at me. Believe me, I'm pedalling as fast as I can. But writing on a treadle sewing machine would be far more sensible than using any keyboard known to man. As I grow old older I find almost everything funny. It's probably an early sign of dementia. I now accept my weaknesses with good humour. Rather than feeling the need to justify myself over every past failure to perform. My life is basically, just, one, long typo. I am flawed. Therefore I am.

As a trendsetter and <cough> influencer I made a return trip to the village on my trike. 14 miles today! A Danish tax expert says that bloggers who gain financially from their activities should be taxed in full. Fat chance of me gaining anything except bemused onlookers as I trundle down the high street. Even after all these years there are still those who stare. Or actually look afraid. It's a third wheel, Madam. Not Boadicea's chariot!

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