I'M having a day of terrible discumbobulation.
I just can't face doing the many administrative and household things that need doing to stop the bailiffs coming after my goods and chattels and chaos reigning in my life.
I took a day's leave from work today just to get all the domestic duties done and dusted, but of course I've achieved sweet Fanny Adams.

The truth is I've been feeling really, really tired of late. Not depressed exactly, just so knackered that I find the slightest task too daunting.
In an attempt to cheer myself up last night I went into Hell's Waiting Room early doors and got stuck into the Guinness.
It was 'happy hour', barmaid Sookie told me, so did I want to order extra pint for 40p off or summat?
'Yeah, whatever'. Though I wasn't feeling at all happy, I took advantage of happy hour...
In the music section of the pub there was no live music for once. Rocky Geetar was in there but he didn't feel like singing.
He's been in a bit of a sulk since barmaid Raven Smokeyeyes caught him having a haircut over on the new imitation leather banquettes.
Anyway, mainly it was women gathered in there the other night, which is fine by me, though I think fundamentally I am a man's man rather than a women's man.
(That wasn't always the case, by the way. Some years ago, when living in London, I went though a state of hanging out chiefly with a gaggle of them there darned female wimmin-critters.)
In fact, I was began to take an unhealthy interest in soft-furnishings and curtains.
Anyway, it was a nice early part of the evening that I spent in the Waiting Room on Wednesday, chatting with Annette Kalms, Runcorn Rita and Karen Kombat .
I left the pub at about nine, to nip home to watch Coronation Street and The Bill, video'd from earlier on. Also, I bought some chips with curry sauce on the way home, from the Twisted Halibut chippy.
I had intended to return to the pub at about 11pm, when I had rested, and then go on to The Lost Weekend late bar on the seafront for the usual boogying and bizarre conversation.
Trouble is, I ran out of energy. I must be short of iron, or zinc, or cod liver oil or something, because I just couldn't raise myself off the couch. I even watched Newsnight, which is as desperate as it is sad.
I had an early (for me) night and slept badly. That's why today I am so discumbobulated.
It's funny, just lately I find it very hard to raise enthusiasm for anything.
Well, having said that, there is just one thing that I get fired up about, and that is poetry, the writing of it and the public reading of it between the acts at live music venues in Wallasey.
The other night I did one of my most mournful poems, at the Ginny, Rake Lane, all about growing up in working class Wigan of the early 1960s.
It was one of the regular Tuesday night gigs by Recklessly Hellbent and Friends. They are very good Celtic folkies and occasionally I read some of my poems during the interval.
Last Tuesday night, I also read one of my most bitter and twisted poetic monologues called The Monster. I hope it is funny, in a dark way, as well as poignant.
I wouldn't say my poems were cheerful, mind, it's just that writing them and performing them cheers ME up.
Creativity often brings out a person's dark side, I find.
For instance, two Tuesdays back I went to Stanley's Cask pub in Wallasey, where singer and actor Carl Lorney (I am not sure I have spelt his name right) holds a weekly open mike session.
Duncan Kindlyface got up and did a difficult Beatles song very well, I thought, and then he did one of his own compositions. My God! It was very dark.
I can't remember what Duncan's song was called, but it was full of death.
I never would have thought it. Duncan is a natural comedian when out for a drink. Very chirpy usually. Now after hearing him do that song I suspect he is really a tortured soul.
Also performing at the Cask was Billy Bustimes, and he sang with the sort of style and gusto that I associate with cabaret artistes on North Sea ferries sailing out of Hull.
Still, leaving Hull is one reason to be cheerful, I suppose.

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