So. What happened was...

I have received a letter from a Mrs. Elaine Palethorpe of Stony Stratford, Buckinghamshire* in which she kindly asks why the original Tottenhamista blog died the slow, lonely death of neglect and isolation that it did.

Well Mrs. Palethorpe, your concern is appreciated. As you asked so kindly, here’s what happened.

Margaret Thatcher died.

I had known for several years what my considered reaction would be to her death. I had the jazz-musician anecdote ready and waiting.

When the time came, I just had to put it into a suitable form and make it public. Which I did.

Whether it was the Baroness’ death or the fall of some other curtain I cannot say, but after that day I no longer felt the need to continue. Posts became fewer and farther between, a strange ennui descended, the urge to foist my ill-tempered attempts at entertaining the masses** left me. Frankly Mrs. Palethorpe, I scarcely wrote a word in the best part of a year and frankly I didn’t want to. I was in a form of hibernation, shedding an old skin if you wish, making some adjustments to this old suit of clothes I call my life.

Tottenhamista died, alone, unwanted, unloved.

I have something of a new impetus now.  The day isn’t complete without around a thousand words or so, not necessarily here but in various projects. I have something of a new muse now also, inspiring me to sit here every day and release coalesced thoughts into the wild.

There’s a chance, also, a strong chance, that other things will go further; I’m saying nothing as yet, hubris is a terrible destroyer of potential and I will not tempt my own downfall. If these things happen, and if ‘these things happen’ is not, as it generally is, the phrase that summarises the disappointment of failure, they will be announced here.

Thank you for your interest, Mrs. Palethorpe. My regards to Mr. Palethorpe if such person exists***, and my very best to you both.

*I haven’t.

**sometimes as many as eighteen of them

***he doesn’t