"How truly does this journal contain my real and undisguised thoughts—I always write it according to the humour I am in, and if a stranger was to think it worth reading, how capricious—insolent & whimsical I must appear!—one moment flighty and half mad,—the next sad and melancholy." Frances Burney.

I should apologise for my recent reliance on quotations to kick start posts but there are good reasons why it's become the norm. Firstly, I am looking for the "ideal" quote, which could justifiably occupy a place of permanence around the title area - based on relevance to this blogging thing, and particularly to this blogger's style. Secondly, I'm guaranteed to have some quality writing on display, albeit always distinguished from my own writing by: quotation marks, italics, credits and an elegance and insight I cannot hope to emulate. And thirdly, I'm turning into a bit of a loafer seeking refuge and vicarious glory in other people's thoughts. And fourthly (there was never going to be a fourthly so perhaps I am curing myself as I kick and poke at my brain as If trying to rouse a somnolent teenager at around two in the afternoon, getupgetup, I quite enjoy the challenge of finding them and through the process of reading and re-reading them to ensure suitability for inclusion, based on the criteria I've set, they seem to scurry themselves into my brain and infect my thinking. For the good, I hope.

Can something be infected for the good of something? I don't know, and I shall continue not knowing because I've gone into freewheel mode. Purify. That's the antonym of infect. They scurry into my brain and purify my thoughts. There, that's sorted that one out. But I haven't sorted this one out yet. This morning I was in total idle mode - and when infected with the germ of idleness, which usually befalls me when I have a weekday off, I watched This Morning. Note the symmetry of that sentence. But please don't measure the length of that "fourthly" sentence, in the previous paragraph. Picture an image of me (yeah! yeah! I know but try real hard) with a thick copy of Fowlers Grammar. If you look closely you'll see me doing my strong man act: slightly crouched, knees knocking, eyes boggled, tongue protruding, and look! the book, it's in two pieces. And look! the shreds are going out the window. Out the window, or out of the window? Hmm when did we decide that the of in sentences like that one would be surplus to requirement?
Where's my Fowler? Oh shit it's in pieces. And this piece is getting well out of hand.

And where was I? Oh yes, This Morning. I can hardly be bothered now. Right I'll keep it short, I'm still in freewheel. Freewheel. Martin Amis calls it freefloat. I think he's taking this War Against Cliche thing a bit too far. Right, This programme This Morning - I'm beginning to feel like Ronnie Corbett when he used to ruin "The Two Ronnies" TV programme with those dreadful monologues sat in that arm chair and continually digressing from the point of his interminably long "jokes" when all we wanted all along was more from his more talented namesake. Repetition of more, buzz, hey we're into "Just a Minute" territory!

Um. What the hell was I going to write about This Morning? It'll have to wait. And the perceptive Miss Burney would look at this journal entry and nod her head sagely and say: "flighty and half mad mode' I think for this one."