Tact is the discrimination of differences. It consists in conscious deviations.

Here is the view up Elizabeth Street towards the bus mall on a brisk winter's afternoon. There is something inherently melancholy about the kind of afternoon light that can be found in winter. I like it, but then again, I’ve been known to stroll along that road on occasion.

I suppose that perhaps it isn’t the light that’s melancholy though. Perhaps the problem is a little closer to home. If only there was some kind of standardised measure of melancholy to help. The Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale is of no use to me, and Warwick-Edinburgh Mental Well-being Scale is a joke. That said, anything to do with Warwick Capper is a absurd as a rule. [See what I did there?] I re-took Dr George W. Crane’s Marital Rating Scale (and scored rather excellently, I might add) but that was no assistance!

In a rut? Tick.

Bored? Tick.

Listless? Tick.

Lacking enthusiasm? Tick.

Frustrated? Tick.

Cynical and contemptuous to others? Tick.

Irritable and curt to wife and children? Tick tick tick!

Dear god! My Melancholy Meter is off the scale! We’re talking Morrissey-esque levels of melancholy here!

Whatever next? Dying my hair black, whipping out the eye-liner and cutting my arms?

I've taken the first step to recovery and ceased the procession of Holocaust memoirs. I am quite sure that the shift to post-Soviet black comedies will help immeasurably!