"The prinipal cause of unhappiness is man's innability to sit quietly, alone, in his room."



I would replace the last extensive ego trip with another, more grammaratically correct one, but alas I have neither the time nor the disposition. So here is the abbreviated one:

I quite enjoy dry Sauvignon Blanc and I feel sorry for seeds in packets, the poor things are trapped and unable to grow.
Cars are loathsome.
Textured wallpaper is horrid, as are many human beings as I have realised from regular attention to The Guardian.
But on balance, rain and grandparents are both lovely, the genetive case is not as tricky as it at first seems, and Virginia Woolf didn't kill herself until she had written many wonderful things.
Also, despite rampant urbanisation and unbridled pollution this year has presented a rather spectacular display of daffodils, which are such cheerful flowers.
           *optimistic*