kinell no trades this week you must have massive discipline. I tried taking small numbers of trades but it didn't suit my character there was a need for involvement in the market which also through up other problems but there it is.
Indeed old boy. Cast iron is as mere jelly when compared to the rigidity of my will.
what t/f you off, like 4H and above or hourly and just super picky.
Not a bit of it. I neglect to dress for dinner and take my chop and claret at the dirty end of the room, as it were. 5 minutes if you please, and not one second longer.
Since I trade three things that might sound a bit extreme to some; to endure an entire five days without a single tickle. It is fairly rare, but very far from unknown.
I made a post recently saying that I expect each trade I make to lose. Why? For the simple reason that every trade will, however temporarily, be in the position of showing a negative balance of sponduliks against my name, due to my broker's impertinent habit of charging me commission. I have tried to reason with him on this subject, but to no avail. The commission-charging habit grips him like dram-drinking grips a Scotchman. Perhaps I should say in the interests of strict accuracy that since my account is denominated in dollars, the negative balance manifests itself in the form of clams or, if you prefer, simoleons. No matter, the import is the same.
Now, draw near and I will impart to you a secret, upon the understanding that it is to go no further than our own good selves. I do not enjoy losing money. It lacks appeal for me. Doubtless it is attributable to some character flaw or other, but the idea fails to fire my imagination. Many will find this strange, but I would urge them to remember that even those with whom we may happen to disagree are also God's creatures.
So, when I consider opening a trade, what confronts me? The prospect of moving from, in the argot of the trading world, the position of being flat to the position of (not in the argot of the trading world) being in the soup. Admittedly, since at that point all we are speaking of is spread and commission, the soup is neither dangerously deep nor unpleasantly hot. At most, I have a toe in soup that is but lukewarm. Nevertheless, the soup is not a suitable place for persons of an artistic nature and a sensitive disposition. Whilst it does not disgruntle me unduly, neither does it gruntle me. It adds nothing to my gruntledness.
Why therefore would I wish to enter therein without compelling reason to do so? You would not, I hear you cry, and you would be correct. This week, no such reason presented itself. The soup failed to sing its Siren song. And a jolly good thing too, for, to continue with our brief tour of classical antiquity, the soup contained no fleeces of gold, but only Scylla and Charybdis.
In the absence of good reason, the soup and I entertain no relations. We remain as strangers. This distance between us pains me, but it is necessary.
I wear a tie when breakfasting at the Ritz (despite their inexplicable embrace of barbarism in no longer requiring this), and ignore the unlovely sight of "gentlemen" consuming eggs and bacon in the exquisite restaurant with exposed necks. Similarly, I do not enter trades without good reason. It is hard, but many worthwhile things are. We endure. We are the heirs of de Monfort, Cromwell and Wellesley, of heroes too numerous to count. We are made of stern stuff. The lip may on occasion quiver slightly, but it remains stiff.
Or to put all that another way, it's not what you win, it's what you don't lose.
. I simply can't cut it and every foray into the scalping arena I've made over the years has resulted in blood on the carpet. 
