I’ve got the January fidgets

“Ar,” I said, as I’m wont to do when struck by the occasional Somerset. “Ar. Well you do know what they say, don’t you?”

“No. What do they say?”

“There’s an ancient proverb about it,” I said. “Goes like this:”

“When January days reach double digits
 An old man’s feet do get the fidgets.”

“You just made that up,” Graham said.

“Not at all.”

“Yes you did. No point in denying it. I thought you couldn’t do poetry any more.”

“That’s not poetry. That’s verse. There’s a difference.”

“It all sounds like rubbish to me. Always has. Always will.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You admit you’re fidgetting, then?”

“No point denying it. I have a deep, penetrating case of the fidgets.”

“Well,” he said, waving his paint brush in my general direction, “stop it, do. Make yourself useful. Brew a pot of tea.”

“That’s your answer to everything.”

“You going to say that tea is not the answer to everything?”

“Nope. I’ll go and make some tea.”

It is true, though. I do have a deep, penetrating case of the fidgets. Apart from a quick dash to the shops, which solves very little, I’m still confined to the house by wind and rain. I need to walk out in the open air to get rid of the fidgets but the open air is being unfriendly just now.

So I sit quietly indoors, reading my book and doing my best not to fidget because I do know how irritating it can be when people fidget. It’s just that… it’s just that… I can’t seem to sit still, you see. I’ve got the January fidgets.