Thursday March 13, 2008
Now the storms have blown themselves into a tizzy, mostly in the North Sea, we’re left in the grey doldrums typical of mid-March. Have to say, March is running absolutely true to form this year. Came in like a lion and, all being well, seems to be lining itself up to go out like a lamb.
Providing we get over the Ides without portentous happenings, that is.
All the signs are there for a bit of good old-fashioned portent so far as I can see. Tent cities springing up around Los Angeles. Tibetan monks marching over the bridge into the fabled land. George W. Bush meandering about the place like a lost President, mumbling about there being no recession and the war is going to plan. If all that doesn’t indicate a touch of the portents I don’t know what does.
And here, Darling Alistair, our beloved Chancellor, has handed down an annual budget that seems more like an Inquisitorial Instrument than a book-balancing affair.
I tell ya. If this was Ancient Rome there’d be hags on every corner muttering about the Ides of March and how it would be wise to beware them.
Graham thinks that our Ides are going to be a little late this year, to coincide with Easter.
“All the signs are there for the property market to leap into action at Easter,” he said yesterday.
“I didn’t think you did signs. You’ll be doing Tarot next.”
“Oh, go and hug a lighthouse, why don’t you?”
And so we float on, day after day, waiting for the property log jam to free itself and dreaming of lumber-jack style blokes coming along with spiked boots and long poles, poking at the mass.
It’s a daft time, is the middle of March.