I hate writing sometimes. There are occasions when I think I'm good at it and on some bright and breezy days, I even believe I have the makings of scribing superstar and what's more, I love the experience. But a lot of my life is spent sitting in front of a computer waiting to type, either because somebody needs me to, because I need me to or because I think I should and I absolutely detest it.
My mind isn't in gear, I don't know what to say or if I do, how to say it. I am unsure about how to start the wordy exchange, what to base it on and how to wrap it up. I feel like a complete failure and a disgrace to the profession of spewing words in written format. I then look in magazines and newspapers, searching for inspiration but all I find is resentment that I will never be as good as the people whose work I am wading through. And I feel like that right now.
I tell myself to blog about Charlton every week, not of course for monetary gain or even because I want to impress, inform or entertain people but because I would loathe myself if I didn't. If I cannot write about one of the few things that I truly care about than I might as well pack it all in now.
Sometimes my frustration gets the better of me and I don't air my Addicks-based thoughts but then I feel even more of a let-down, so even though I am having one of my meltdown days, I have forced myself to switch on my laptop, perch myself in front of it and type, despite the fact I would rather be doing a whole host of other things.
It's not going to be a captivating read, mind you. When I get annoyed my entire day falls into ruin, so I am not prepared to conduct any research on Hartlepool - even though I will have to later in the week for another writing obligation that I despise. So my preview will consist of this - they are mid-table but we should win. That was worth waiting for wasn't it?
I really hope Saturday survives the country-wide big chill. Not so we can try and overhaul Norwich and re-leap back into the top two, although that would warm my cockles. No, the reason being that sitting in the west stand of the Valley is one of the few occasions I feel at ease.
It doesn't matter whether we are giving another a team a right pasting or on the receiving end of an obliteration ourselves. There's nothing I can do. Sure, I can cheer and try to gee the boys up but I cannot control what goes on between the white lines. I can watch and be happy, safe in the knowledge that I am free from pressure.
Not like in social or work situations, where the onus is on you to make your mark. I don't need witty banter, esteemed intelligence, an understanding of what it is I am supposed to be doing. I don't even need to look the part. I just sit, level with the halfway line, an overly-shouty man to the left of me, a pleasant elderly couple to the right and a flat cap-loving fellow in front. I breathe in the air, watch Bailey and co weave their magic or play abysmally and I am content. When I enter Bartram's at the denouement of the match, my anxieties and frustrations return but for those 90-odd minutes, I feel alive.
Anyway, that's enough from me. Enjoy the game.