Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
Invictus, W.E. Henley
As I wend my way through my final days here at work, sloping sullenly in on grey mornings and scurrying franticly out in the dark evenings, I find solace in muttering these nerve-strengthening and resolve-stiffening lines to myself. In much the same way that I scowl and mutter Philip Larkin's This Be The Verse to myself when forced to converse with my parents. Or Wendy Copes's Bloody Men when waiting for a bus. What I'm saying here is that I tend to talk to myself a great deal. Which may account for the fact that I am not generally liked.
The tax office sent me a 'Claim for tax repayment during unemployment' form the other day. Do they know something I don't?