scaffolding

I find this all very new and difficult. What's happened to the old and trusted blogging system? Now it seems to be, as does everything right now, life in general, this writing lark, but let's not go there, to be reloaded with a different cartridge. Just because they can (whoever does this, stand up and identify yourself). The old cartridge, it seems to me, was fine and dandy! It weren't broke, yet you fixed it. Stand up indeed. Someone should bundle together all tinkers in this word and shovel them into the cupboard under the stairs. And yet, if it's a case of, if you don't tinker and fix things that ain't broke, you don't keep your job, then that changes things. Hmm. I wouldn't want to be responsible for people losing their jobs. Lord no. That's the government's role. So if that is the case, then tinker away, but please don't disturb me, don't confuse my little brain, don't muddy its waters, I'm already up to the neck in mud and slime, and still not sure if I'm on the right road. Ah me. The writer in me feeling alone and unwanted and unsure. But how can I be alone with  scaffolding still at my gable end, like an ever present cobweb and men trapped in it working away fixing things, that really do need to be fixed? And how can I feel unwanted, when there's tea to be made and coffee with sugar and milk. And how can I feel unsure when... There's the rub. I do feel unsure. Maybe it's the rain. The rain.  I demand a refund. I demand some dry weather. I demand, I demand, I demand. All you people out there (Hi Alice, how're you doing?) let's hear it for Celia B's demands. Oh never mind. I'll just keep writing and hope it's for the best. If anyone can decode this blog then you're a better man than I am. So endeth it. I used green, by the way, because I can.