I'm hurt, wounded, miffed, in high dudgeon and all in roughly equal measure but then again, I'm only on the second bottle so the chances of my mellowing as this goes on would seem pretty fair to middling should anybody feel like opening a book on it but come to think of it, as this is in no way happening in real time, it would hardly seem likely unless, of course, you are either bereft of a brain or in as addled a condition as I hope to be in a short, wee while.
So, wherefore this attack of pique? Well, much as it pains me to admit it, Jess has done me again with her word of the day. Ambisinister, I ask you! Apart from being descriptive of one possessing an uncanny ability to look like Michael Howard in both left and right profile, I can't think of anything. Actually, come to think of it...that'll do nicely. But then again, I'm easily pleased.
So, I hear you politely enquire, why is it that, despite this late flash of inspiration, I am still sulking and muttering imprecations under my breath or to put it another way or in Sheffield dialect even..."Why's tha still got blog on?"
With no further ado, hesitation or prevarication whatsoever I shall explain, elucidate and enlighten your good and patient, forebearing selves and inform you that I have been the victim of a misapprehension of gargantuan proportions.
I have been wrongly accused, wantonly, cruelly and though it pains me so to say it, spitefully, viciously and with malice aforethought of a most heinous oversight. A crime of such selfishness, vindictiveness and plain no-goodedness that I hesitate to lay it before you in all its red toothed, black cloaked and villainous evil.
So, dear readers...assuming you have inhaled deeply and suitably girded up your loins, maybe even availed yourselves of a bracing snifter or three and ensured that all your affairs are in order and the life insurance premiums are up to date, made provision for your surviving dependents or just emptied your bowels in preparation rather than running the risk of being embarrassed by them dropping spontaneously with shock at the enormity of my offence, I shall reveal all...
I'm afraid to say that Jess, alias MD, EC and Doc has accused me of keeping The Six Dwarfs all to myself under a veil of impenetrable secrecy.
Notwithstanding the fact that I have lost an irreplaceable roving researcher to the temptations of blogging on his own initiative, to be so accused is a wound almost visceral in its severity. I have been cut to the quick, slashed open to the very core. Maybe I should re-examine my whole conception of the world, re-define my raison d'etre, sever diplomatic ties with Maryland and consult Messrs. Sue, Grabbit and Runne, solicitors to the very liquid.
Or maybe I should just abandon the whole enterprise, crack open another bottle of Stella, chase it down with a good two fingers of fine Islay malt and admit that she might just, maybe, have a case.
After all, I was informed on the Wednesday and didn't get around to posting the link till the Thursday which, I suppose, was awfully, terribly remiss of me.
It would seem that I have chosen the second option. I have just returned from the fridge (a well trodden path if ever there was) and have tipped a hefty measure of Ardbeg into my favourite glass. Did you know that I have a fridge entirely dedicated to keeping my stocks of Stella at a constant 5°C? No? My, how depressingly ill-informed you all are.
Anyway, I'm off to find Jess in one of her usual chat-room haunts. If I'm lucky, by the time I finally manage to track her down, I'll have decided which piece of my mind I'm going to give her!
What was it that personality test said about me being histrionic?
Oh well, if you have been, mind how you go, y'all.