I am lacking focus.

Possibly, I should man-up and  make an appointment to assess whether I am suitable for having my eyeballs sliced open or singed. This is something I have been promising myself since it became clear that my specs needed to become a full-time fixture, rather than just a temporary tool for avoiding driverly devastation, or attempting to follow the ‘plot’ of  high concept, sub-titled films on any screen smaller than the Metro Arena’s.

Well, when I say that it ‘became clear’, it was more of a swirly, misty thing, but there was definitely something there. I think.

Thankfully, my near-sight remains perfect. If that sounds boastful, I (kind of) apologise, but I am scraping the bottom of my positivity barrel, this fine January. Accordingly, I am able to make beautifully illustrated (ok – ‘doodled’) lists of outstanding writerly and Helenly projects and marvel and panic at their outstandingness without squinting.

That is not a squint. There is a distinct difference between a squint and a scowl.