You will all, no doubt, be familiar with Rudyard Kipling’s poem November. Except that you won’t, because Kipling didn’t write it. My fuddled and unfocused brain was convinced it was Kipling, but in-depth research (yes, Google) revealed in fact that the poem I was thinking of was written by Thomas Hood. No matter, the poem is the thing and it is a perfect evocation of November. All fog, dankness and an overwhelming sense of crapness. Truth be told, right now, this very second, as I write this, the weather is lovely. Even so, broadly speaking Thomas Hood had nailed it. Don’t wish your life away, but November in the northern hemisphere can be the sort of month best just dealt with and got through as we hurtle towards year end.
So maybe that explains my feelings of unrest. I am fidgety and fed-up, which has manifested itself in my feeling slightly more withdrawn from those around me than usual. As well as the time of year, I think there is also the time of my life, as it were. The ticking clock in my head reminds that we will not pass this way again so time to do what we want to do. And that is…?
Well, I don’t know, but as a former colleague of mine used to say “Nobody’s last words were ever ‘I wish I’d spent more time in the office’.”
