I think I am going mad. It is, paradoxically, the only sane response to the year I’ve been having. I have not stuck pencils up my nose and put my underpants on my head, like Blackadder, but there are definite internal stirrings and flickerings of the mind, like a faulty neon tube.
The external symptoms present as an inability to sleep on alternate nights and an inability to wake up on the other days; a disinclination to socialise; a complete inability to socialise with more than one person at a time; and an even worse than usual inability to tidy up my mess. I manage to keep the kitchen under some kind of rudimentary control but the bedroom is that of a man who has given up all hope. Readers familiar with this column will know that I am not exactly Mr Tidy but earlier today I couldn’t find my trousers, which I think you will agree represents a new low.
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