Pantsman pax ’em out.

I’m just trying out my ability with tabloid headlines. Not a bad one there, maybe. The reason I think of the gussett troubles of the Beeb’s biggest news anchor is twofold:

1, we were remarking only moments before we heard the news of Jeremy’s already-infamous letter to the hitherto-be-shining-armoured Sir Stuart Rose – branding smarty-pants – that my recent purchases from the M&S; Symmetrical & Only Vaguely-Defined Men’s department were worryingly thin of fibre. Soft, I mark you. But disturbingly opaque. Bad timing to have tried white ones for the first time in twenty years…

2, my energy levels are pants. And thin. And worn-through.

A deadline-buried weekend just about floored me by the time Caroline and I were driving up to Horsham yesterday. The road was a blur. I found no reserves of personality to offer loved ones as we entered the crowded church in the old town. And as the funeral of another member of our wider family rolled past us in the pews, I wondered how to contribute anything to those we were standing with. I could barely stand for sudden fatigue.

David was an inspiration. A big smile of wisdom. To be there felt like a great privilege – but I felt only there in body.

Now, back so soon with another deadline to battle through before tomorrow morning, I am dreaming of time off. Time free. Time to think. Time to regenerate some creativity. Because I can sense things to be done coming our way – perhaps good things. But I just want to crawl under a rock at the moment.

Just a few days of french cafés and sketching. No deadlines. No schedule. That’s all it might take. Because I still feel a little overwhelmed by the people around me; their care and love.

So I guess, after all, I’m saying that I don’t think I’m in need of any extra support – I just don’t want to be quite so on show for a little while.