The problem with ticks

Last Christmas I was given a wall calendar.  Due to what I can only surmise is some kind of Pavlovian response, I immediately stuck it up on my kitchen wall.

In order to add some excitement, I decided to not peek ahead.

And so the year went on.  With each new month revealing a different view of the South Coast.  By March, I was bored.  I decided to use it as a kind of prison style tally.  I would take a moment to review each day, and put a cross or a tick in the bewilderingly small message box provided, depending on how good or bad it had been.

Some days had big fat ticks, some had crosses.

What I began to notice was that the ticks were getting less, and the crosses more.  One month there were only crosses.  By July, I had added a new category of Skull and Crossbones to the review process.

Picaresque West Sussex soon resembled a flotilla of pirate ships.

I decided that the problem was that I liked drawing crosses.  Ticks were so chirpy and fleeting.  One little swipe and they were done.  A cross however, could happily accommodate every mood from mildly annoyed that my socks had been paired inside out, to wanting to rip off someone’s head and ram it in the juicer.  Ticks were dull affairs, crosses could be read in the dark… four months deep.

Once I scrapped ticks I felt a lot happier about my life.

This Christmas I was given another calendar.  July has a view of riders on the South Downs Way.  I’ve taken to drawing stick men in situ.  They are all Postmodernists.

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