The smallness of the list was heartbreaking. Already, the record of my father’s last weeks had filled several small, black notebooks: his last Christmas, his final trip into ward 18 at Frenchay Hospital, the last time I saw him when, with an attempt at a normal smile, he told me that he loved me.
What does a spouse do? Put the trash out? Phone the insurance company when they refuse to pay out? Phone the police when your iPad’s been stolen (again)? Put an arm around you when you cry?
If you read nothing else, ever, read this.
There are basically just two questions people want answered when going online: who’s dead and who’s s****ing whom: coffins and bonkings.
Heck, Windows 2021 is almost upon us, and with no Christmas parties to hone their pulling skills, men are going to find leaner pickings as they lose out to hungrier (and richer) rivals.
This year, I’m having a quiet one by myself (though quite why I felt the need to order a 12lb turkey is anybody’s guess). As we draw to the end of a terrible year, there is still so much to be grateful for. I am alive, for starters.
I always fancied Blake myself, but I have an aversion to beards, so it was never a goer. Add to that the fact that I am not an international superstar, beautiful, and boasting a stunning figure, but hey, details, details.
STOP, RUDY! JUST STOP! Yes, I’m shouting at you, Mr Giuliani. Just as the President shouts in capital letters when he doesn’t like something people say about him, which is all the time.
If I were to choose anyone to sit down and watch a porn movie with, it would be Judge Alex. Fully robed. Briefly. Then I would want him to handcuff me, put me behind bars and make me beg on all fours . . . Well, you get the picture. And if you don’t… apparently, it’s illegal for me to send it on the internet.
I never dreamed that the first (and only) occasion (to date) that I would pull an emergency cord would be on the Paris Metro. Nor did I imagine that I would bring the whole underground system to a crashing halt with a security alert that sent half the Paris police force running down into the confines of the Rue du Bac station, guns at the ready.