I’m glad you finally showed up, so – welcome, and please don’t leave it so long next time.
It must be Easter school holiday this week. The screaming from our neighbours garden makes me wonder if some poor child is having his or her legs pulled off without anaesthetic.
Just had my veruca blasted with liquid nitrogen.
Now I understand why they call it ‘Cry-otherapy’
Whilst I appreciate that a man cannot live on bread alone, I really enjoy trying the many types of bread on our local supermarket shelves. There are so many different recipes from around the world that I find irresistable.
In Britain, we seem to have a ‘one-loaf-fits-all’ attitude. That’s one loaf for breakfast, lunch, tea and supper. We buy the same loaf year in – year out. To me, this seems so narrow minded in light of the huge variety we could choose from.
This attitude prevails where I live, but also seems polarised into a statement of social class differentiation. As far as the locals are concerned, the ‘working’ folks have a sliced white loaf, but if you have an O’level or two then one probably prefers brown bread. Of course if you’re a Hippy, Pinko, Trotski, pillow-sucking, tree-hugging health facist, then you probably eat wholemeal or granary bread – Dahling.
Ooooh, was I slipping into a rant there? Sorry! Oh yes, bread types. So we had yummy Chapatti’s with our dinner last night, and we’re trying a Butter Brioche loaf for breakfast this morning. I have a yes vote from Lydia and Abigail.
I often get asked this baffling question before I go on a holiday.
‘Are you going anywhere nice on holiday?’ seems to suggest there is a possibility I might not be going somewhere nice on my holiday.
But I’m going on holiday. Why would I go anywhere I don’t expect to be nice?
We were given a 2012 Cliff Richard calendar at Christmas. When it was unwrapped I gave it scant attention because we naturally believe that dear ‘old’ Cliffy will live for ever. Hurrah!
My sincerest apologies to the legions of Cliff fans who might be dismayed at my subsequent observations of your four hundred and twenty-one year old heart throb, but after taking a closer look at the pictures I realised to my horror that Cliff is aging!
Worse still, he doesn’t appear to have realised this fact himself. Not only is his wardrobe selection like that of a charity shop bargain addict, but the usual boyish expressions have a formaldehyde drenched appearance.
Speaking for myself alone, my heartfelt request to my own legion of fans is that as soon as anyone notices my mouth hanging vacantly open – please assume I’m drifting into dementia and administer a swift blow with the back of a shovel to the back of my head and put me out of my misery.
I often make Lydia a cup of coffee. I know exactly how she likes it, decaff, not too hot, not to strong, plenty of milk, one spoon of demerara.
She regularly takes a sip, and puts it on the side. Then she forgets it’s there, and I come along an hour later to chuck it down the kitchen sink.
I’ve started to drop subtle hints, like “Don’t drink it if you don’t want to Dear, I won’t be offended”.