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February 17th 2010    Tim Candler

    The Grey Cat's mistress reckons that March is worse than February, because March contains false promise.   She is calm in her understanding and she is without those flights of imagination that produce images of men in boots contentedly digging earth while Snowdrops bloom.

    Possibly I have false memories of February.   Probably February has always been like this.   Those images in my head have been somehow transposed onto February from other parts of the year.  April perhaps.  Or November.   Or even May.

    Perhaps I should assume that this time next year I will be under this same spell, because that's how I have learned to manage the day to day of  frozen ground upon which there is nothing to do but risk slipping, falling and breaking something.

     Within the thing that is me delusion is apparently central to equilibrium.  So tonight I will drift into sleep, firm in my conviction that at noon tomorrow I will read fifty eight on the thermometer and that I will be running around outside like a rabbit.

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