Don’t worry, my friends. When I muse upon anything, it’s not expected to change the world. Nor change my mind. Least of all, change me.

Though I can’t guarantee any of that. Most of the changes, of course, are fairly insignificant since most of my musings are mighty silly. Whether the changes are for the better or worse, given my goofiness, time and my critics will undoubtedly tell.

What’s on my tiny mind today? Tiny thoughts.

Like: If policy-makers are serious when they say we should reduce waste, then why are the bags for collecting rubbish and taking it to be heaped in the landfill mostly touted by manufacturers as being more desirable because they’re nearly indestructible? And as a corollary question, how many policy-makers can fit into one of those indestructo-bags? Oops, I said that out loud, didn’t I. Just one of life’s little conundrums.

Should that be ‘conundra’? Conundrae? I had to look it up and absolutely hooted with joy when I saw the responses to a Guardian (Thank You, British linguistic pugilists! Thank you!) inquiry on the topic. Yet more delightful musings spring forth from the very thought of these brainiacs tussling humorously over the proper plural, whether there is one, and whether anyone ought to give a fig about it.

I also muse on things like: If I always dreaded and hated pressing clothes at laundry time, so much so that I got rid of the requisite appliance many years ago, yet I am now slightly obsessive about folding clothes so that they seem, possibly, neatly pressed…is that ironic? I would be hard pressed to say.

Like: If “Youth is wasted on the young,” why do the people who say so think that by recapturing the privileges and advantages of youth, they would remain mature enough to give the lie to their assertion? I guess they’re too busy being self-congratulatory on having a George Bernard Shaw quotation up their sleeves to consider any other delusions. Unless they’re too busy checking to see whether Shaw was restating (“Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children.”) Oscar Wilde—and who wouldn’t? Wilde was the bonniest of mot-smiths.

All I can think in response to it, in fact, is: Why leave it to young people to act like children anyhow? It’s only in my latter years that I have gained a deeper appreciation for my natural talent and efforts combining to keep me so wonderfully immature.

With that, I will say that it’s probably past my bedtime (one of the catalysts for my current state of fuzzy thinking, perhaps, but surely not the only one), and whether that’s because I’m such a child or because I’m such an old lady is kind of irrelevant, isn’t it. Good night, then, and may all of your dreams come true. As long as they’re full of Wilde brilliance.

Ta-ta, toodle-oo, and a good nighty-night to you all!