A funny thing happened on the way to the mirror. But it’s a house not just of one mirror, but many; and they are, quite simply, life.
Category: That’s Life
DON’T… Be lazy, drunkenly heading for the bathroom in the middle of the night. The white telephone table in the hallway only looks like the toilet; you have several more feet to go.
I brushed up on my French and started to learn Italian and Spanish (again). The Italian has been going quite well; the Spanish less so. But given that I lived in Spain for 10 years and got no further than “taco” and “Don’t kill the f*****g bull!”, that’s hardly surprising.
At the end of a very difficult year, this wasn’t quite how I imagined wishing everyone a happy 2021, but in these unpredictable times we really can’t gauge anything, least of all happiness. So, I’m going to change it slightly and wish you all a Loving New Year.
The world has changed. My groping days – at least, in public places – are over; I am too old for such displays of affection, and also, today, I would probably be behind bars.
I thought I had shaken off Adrian the astrologer, but possibly sensing that the guardian angel was winging away, he has returned with a vengeance. Fearful of my destiny unless I sign up to his cosmic plan, he is now offering a discounted rate.
You can call it what you like, but stalking by flying is still stalking, whichever way you look at it. Stick to what you’re good at and tell a few unsuspecting virgins they are pregnant.
You cannot imagine my delight when, out of nowhere, a flashing box popped up on my computer screen telling me that I had missed a message from the guardian angel you promised me.
What if my guardian angel was called Bob? I don’t know why: I just didn’t want a Bob. That was the name of someone you go to the pub with, not someone you want flapping their wings around you of an evening when you’re trying to eat your curry and watch Law and Order: SVU.
On Christmas morning, we all used to go to the neighbours for pre-dinner drinks. The turkey would have been prepared and stuffed early in the morning – the giblets pulled out for stock, the inside of “the bird” dried out with a tea-towel, accompanied by Mum shouting at Dad “You know I hate it being called the bird!” What was it with her and birds, I wonder?