A Vague Sense of Irritation

I know, I was a little ill-tempered in yesterday's post.  It's just that the news media tends to irritate me at this time of year.  Most of the time during the festive period they can't be arsed to make any real effort to fill their pages or air time between Christmas and New Year - they just serve up endless retrospectives, 'Best of' compilations and 'Top Ten' lists of things that happened in the preceding year - yet as soon as they come across something they can ruin your Christmas with, be it murders, natural disasters or celebrity deaths, they're all over it like a rash.  Mind you, I think even our shitty media are probably feeling celebrity death fatigue with Rick Parfitt, George Michael, Liz Smith, Carrie Fisher and Richard Adams all shuffling off this mortal coil in quick succession.  That said, media notwithstanding, I have been feeling vaguely irritated over the past couple of days.  There's no reason why I should feel that way.  By choice, I've had a low key Christmas of quiet contemplation.  I've kept myself to myself, avoided the rest of the human race where possible, (other people are one of my chief irritants, I find), and focused on catching up with old movies, reading PG Wodehouse and drinking beer.  I've even steered clear of social media more than usual and have avoided the various online groups I'm involved with.

So, why do I feel this underlying sense of irritation, to the point that I haven't yet replied to a text from a lose friend, sent this morning, for fear that I'll come over ill-tempered?   I'm damned if I know.  I mean, not being at work and not having to deal with people, I feel the most relaxed I have in months - I don't feel perpetually tired or vaguely ill all the time - so I should be happy.  And I was, up until the latter part of Christmas Day.  Maybe it was the shock of hearing that George Michael had died.  I wasn't a fan, (although I understand that he was a pretty nice bloke as celebrities go), but there's always something disturbing about someone of your generation dying suddenly - it reinforces all those other intimations of mortality you start getting as you slip into middle age.  Perhaps it is a throwback to that sense that life is somehow passing me by, which I suffered from the Summer before last.  Which I really shouldn't be feeling, as I've been remarkably productive since finishing work for this year: I've turned out a new story for The Sleaze, edited together my traditional Christmas film and even recorded, edited and released a new edition of 'The Sleazecast' (the latter in a record time of twelve hours - I know that sounds a lot for just half an hour of audio, but believe me, its more complex than you realise).  And, after a couple of days rest, I'm still aiming to get another story written for The Sleaze and, hopefully, another  'Schlock Express' out before the year ends.   So, hopefully the irritation is just a passing mood - maybe tomorrow I'll wake up feeling entirely happy and feel safe to text my friend back.