A postcard from the 11th of December, 2020

I made a promise to myself when I refreshed the look of this stupid website in November that I would never write about that thing in the news. You know the thing I’m talking about. The one that has been droning on in the background for four years (or five, or ten, or forty seven, or fifty nine, or several hundred, depending on how you look at these things). The thing beginning with B.

I’m sticking to that promise. I have a handful of opinions about it, sure I do, but I’m keeping them to myself. What’s the point, eh? Once a cow has started rolling down a hill, a pithy summation of the situation isn’t going to help it. Calling the people who pushed it irresponsible won’t put its hooves back on.

Damn it. I’m kind of talking about it. I’ll stop now.

Hooves don’t fall off cows, do they? I’m thinking of horse shoes. Cows don’t wear shoes. They just have feet. Feet that we call hooves.

Do cows have hooves? I’m doubting myself now.

No. What am I saying. Of course cows have hooves.

I think I may have been in lockdown for too long.

I can’t remember the last time I even saw a cow.

Not that I ever looked at their feet/hooves especially.

Not that I don’t look at their feet/hooves/shoes either.

It’s just that they are usually quite far away, or the grass they are standing in is quite long.

And covers their hooves/feet/shoes/trainers/pumps/plimsoles/stilettos/leg extensions.

Where was I?

Does it matter?

Probably not.