Hot, sultry, energy-sapping, no work to be had, everyone else on holiday, nights drawing in and autumn foreshadowed, nothing in the news …. August used to be known as the dog days.
Why dogs have become a metaphor for depression, I don’t know. Uncle Bogler’s dog seems cheerful enough, it is the Bogler soi-même who is unfathomably depressed and cannot see a future unfolding much beyond next Monday.
Having achieved most of the key objectives in terms of securing what materiél he felt was needed to support his new future life, he sees no sign of the life itself emerging. A sea mist has rolled in, cold and impenetrable as death.
The one thing that still has graspable reality for the Bogler is the jazz music, and he knows that it is a paper-thin illusion. It is not ‘my music’, in the post i-Player parlance. It belongs to the makers, of whom he is a most unpromising and callow imitator. Besides, he has heard it before.
Let us rechristen August the ‘blog days’.