C is for Can’t

I’m not stuck. That definitely couldn’t be further from the truth. Just because my cranial innards have clotted and curdled and congealed into a peculiarly crusty and colourful jelly doesn’t mean that I’m not perfectly capable of bringing this task to completion. I am in no way fleeing as swiftly as possible from my problems, to countries and citadels as far away as Constantinople (which to my clearly uncultured ears slums eminently classier than Istanbul) and the Caribbean. The teeny tiny Czar taking up residence in my mind has decreed that my task must be accomplished before the end of day. He passes this edict from his comfy perch atop his coppery throne of Cuban carpentry. Knowing full well how combatitive and crushing he can be, I have no doubt that he’ll dispatch a collegic sorcerer to cast a choleric curse upon me should I fail.

I can stare for as long as I like (and an awful lot longer than that. You won’t be too surprised by that admission of course as it’s crystal clear by now that I am well and truly clueless. Though I imagine that only the particularly clever and charismatic among you will have come to that realisation before I pointed it out. Then again, you are the cream of the crop) at a whole page of c words generated by me. From crimson to configuration to corset and beyond (I know beyond doesn’t start with a c. I can’t give everything away you know. There may well come a day when I am similarly trapped down a cul-de-sac of the mental filaments).

No, it’s too hard. The pressure has coated my neurons with cream incompatible with creativity. It’s a recorded condition, I’m sure you’ve come across it before. This blog post will have to go unwritten forever. There’s no way around it. I’ll be fine though, a child made of custard just invented some anti-curse knickers for me. It definitely wasn’t just a dream.

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