I've just about reached my limit. If I have to listen to another news bulletin, hear another self righteous political monologue, stomach another piece of environmental carnage and look at another tear-jerking human rights expose I swear I'll leave, go off planet.
I'm sick of the way the human race is blind to its responsibilities and its unwillingness to recognise that the Earth exists for more than human beings. When are economists going to acknowledge that finance is not food? I needed a break, but I haven't got a spaceship, except the one I'm living on with 7.8 billion fellow nutcases.
So to avoid going totally bonkers I took up, again, the annual summons to be Troubadour at Levin's Medieval Market on Valentine's weekend Saturday.
It was a sweltering day and a pleasant drive as I headed south. I wasn't feeling totally chipper, with a sneeze and slight sore throat. The sky was blue and the fairground thronged with villagers and visitors of all descriptions amongst the usual motley collection of food and coffee purveyors, shield painters and soothsayers, sellers of craft and costume.
It was a chance for people to escape the shadows of plaque and poverty and warfare, reported and otherwise, that filled the airwaves and the landscapes beyond New Zealand's shores. For this moment, the air was filled with the skeins of medieval and other minstrelship and the clash of armoured knights, in hand to hand combat.
I led the parade as usual, welcoming the throngs, who watched quizzically as our long train of performers wove through the fairground. Then it was down to business.
Finding a spot in the shade was a mission, along with wondering if my voice would hold up for the day. I persevered. I traded a song or two for a chilled smoothie from the Jolly Roger coffee cart. It was refreshing to be smiled at by pretty damsels in flowing dresses. I realised I wasn't dead after all.
An archer from The Red Ravens twirled and flourished her dance around me as her red dress flowed through her every move as I played. It was wonderful. Her eyes never left me as she saw herself reflected in the window behind me. That's what rapport meant. I felt life return to my soul. It was good.
The day wore on, its heat dissipated. The Roman Tenth Legion tramped past me, probably in pursuit of Boadicea (Queen of the Britons) and the Morris Dancers.
By late afternoon I was feeling washed out as I collected my due bag of gold coin from the treasury and headed home, catching a double pizza from Dominos on the way.
Home now, I've paid the price. It's taken a week to get my voice back and overcome whatever pestilence I succumbed to. I'm still recovering. Life continues. The world turns. Will things change for the better? I hope so. For that moment it was good to get off the treadmill.
