Dull as a house brick

At one time there was a place that made bricks in the exotic location known as Hill of Beath in Fifeshire. I don't think that happens there anymore. This was found on the beach, I presume that it was washed ashore from some tragic and long forgotten shipwreck, like the Irish Rover. I'm sure that she was carrying a cargo of bricks from somewhere to New York. Of course it might have just fallen from the clear and empty sky and failed to break up on impact. They made good bricks in those days.

Good coffee gone bad: When you read lengthy Scandinavian books about how tedious, depressing and vital real life can be you cant help but reflect upon your own life and ask yourself, "once I'm gone (hopefully after a very short and pain free illness that does not result in the loss of either faculties or dignity) how will I be remembered?" It's a real teaser that could either keep you awake at night or put you to sleep or keep you awake all day, like a heavy sticky doughnut in the early morning belly. I'll probably be remembered as a person who was mostly around and then wasn't and between times blogged and generally fibbed a bit. I'm just not seeing the wide Scandinavian interest or the Nordic richness shining through here in the banality of it all and I lack the gift of total recall and self indulgent imagination. There is no great piece of over arching philosophical brilliance or clear insights into the human condition with all of it's joy and pain. The word dull just springs to mind. Dull as a house brick (but useful from time to time). As I reflect on these heavy issues I realise that coffee starts to turn nasty once you get halfway down the jar and that the older you get the more the soles of your feet become itchy in the evening. Why?