Dear Reader

No. I really can’t, on reflection, attempt to hide behind the pathetic excuse in this week’s title. I have to come clean.

It’s been some time coming, but I’m afraid it’s finally arrived. I am sitting at my desk, heavy-hearted, typing this brief post at almost 1:40 on the night between Monday and Tuesday; or, to put it more bluntly, seven hours and twenty minutes before publication time. I have nothing to say. Words fail me. I blame a combination of the Jewish calendar, a slow news day (something of a novelty in these parts) and the lethargy induced by not getting to sleep until gone 2:00 on Sunday night (not quite the all-night learning that is traditional on Shavuot night, but about as much as Bernice and I can handle at this stage and still have a hope of making it to shul in the morning).

And so, a hitherto unbroken run of 289 posts of content (some better than others, but all over 1200 words: never mind the quality, feel the length), one a week over 2023 days, ends here, with a mere 348 vacuous words from a henceforth broken man.

There will, bli neder, be other weeks. I plan to be back next Tuesday for my usual desperate ramble through the byways of what passes these days for my mind. If I’m really firing on all cylinders, I might address the question of what exactly is the nature of the ‘Palestinian state’ that France claims to be about to recognise. Or I might just possibly be sharing with you the details of our interesting crop of nectarines this year, or speculating on the likely etymology of bandersnatch. At this stage, dear reader, your guess is as good as mine. I can only hope that, by this time next week, my guess will be considerably better than yours!

Until then, and in the hope that I have not completely ruined your week (just my own), I remain

Your (finally exposed as intermittent) correspondent

David