Dickens’ cider (‘dumped’) moribund of the band again

Ever Dearest Diary,

The day has not gone well, yet it is somehow alright. It was the best of times, and ... well. Let’s see.

Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head; I went downstairs and had now’t so made my way to the gig, which went alright.

The fiddler arrived, we met up with the Devlin Eype Church, who, after jamming I fell out with. The fiddler (who plays banjo) more or less ‘dumped’ me, like a ho. We had one last jam, which I shot, and as we split up, he said, “Same time next week?”

As the late-great Dickens-cider said: It was the best ... and worst of times.

I had a good cry about it, once I’d returned home, gave Ronulus a cuddle. Then got stuck into my Latin coursework for a short while, and am now shattered.

Must... finish... module A297 work.

My academic fate hangs by the slenderest of threads, finer than an arachnid’s filament. A horses hair. A whisper.

No sound now. Just quiet. Calm.

Max-out.