Murk

I am glum. By early January, with another Christmas gone, I feel the dull depth of a Welsh winter dragging me down. I wake in gloom, I work all day in gloom and I walk home in gloom. It’s hard to find the joy in this enveloping cloak of grey. I constantly remind myself that it could be worse, but this drabness naggingly suggests that it might yet be. My father’s often repeated maxim to take pleasure in small things is all that keeps me going some days. My wife’s smile, a text…

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