What is it like when your personal narrative becomes richly fascinating, exotic and full of glamour? You may ask me that. You certainly may! You may certainly ask me because – as it happens – I know the answer to this question full well! What’s it like, what’s it like…’ you ask. The answer is that it’s complete shit of course; what you’re looking at here is bad news and no mistake. You’re looking at a horror right there – stamp on it and put it out of its misery! Have nothing to do with it. Have no truck with it – make the sign of the crucifix to ward it off and then invoke the names of whatever saints you might happen to favour. Put a stop to it, I beg you! I wouldn’t consider myself to be the emotional type but the very thought of such a situation (the sort of situation that we are discussing here today at this very moment) causes an intensity of empathic pain that I cannot in any coherent way articulate. This is a most damnable business and I’ve seen where it leads to time and time again. We’ve all seen where this particular path leads, I would say. Seen but not recognised it perhaps, but seen nonetheless. Seen nonetheless. ‘What’s it like to live a life of grinding futility?’ you might perhaps ask me. Ask away by all means – ask away. Don’t be shy. Don’t tiptoe around the place. Speak out bravely and heartily. Eat of the food that is being provided for you for it will nourish your body; and not just your body either but your soul too. Your very soul, no less. Eat of the bread that has been placed upon the table; don’t hold back – take what you want, eat as much as you need. Eat of the bread that has been provided – eat well and eat heartily. This is metaphorical bread which we are speaking about of course; it’s no good asking me if it’s gluten-free or if it’s made out of ancient grains or anything like that. It’s no good asking me if it’s Mother’s Pride or Hovis or Brennan’s white sliced pan. It’s no good you asking me if you can perhaps toast it, or spread crunchy peanut butter on it, or make a tasty sandwich with it. You’re missing the point you see, you’re going off track in a big way. This is the bread of metaphor – that’s what we’ve got to remember. All of a sudden I find myself getting tired with this talk however; I feel I’m getting nowhere. A great weariness descended upon me; I no longer care about what I am saying nor why. ‘How stale and unprofitable is my existence in this world’ I feel like saying. That’s a quote from someone but I don’t know who. Whoever it was they knew how I’m feeling now that’s for sure, they knew only too well. ‘What’s your problem buddy?’ you ask, all bright and breezy. ‘Maybe you’re not getting out enough? Maybe you should make some friends?’ I somehow feel it goes a little deeper than that however – the facile remedies of the world aren’t going to work for me. I’d ask you to kindly keep them to yourself – you may be able to revive your tired old personal narrative in that way but don’t ask me to try it. Cheap tricks won’t work for me anymore. The gimmicks no longer cut the mustard. No sir they don’t. You’ll be advising me to find a hobby next no doubt. You needn’t bother though – I’ve already got one. It’s called ‘maintaining the damnable lousy ego construct’. It’s called ‘maintaining the damnable ego-construct even though you’re heartily sick of doing so’….