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.
Category: That’s Life
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?
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.
If you read nothing else, ever, read this.
Mum always said that the best present Dad ever gave her was an Elizabeth Arden vanity case, packed with goodies. It was probably the only present he ever got right. The Christmas he bought her the amethyst necklace and earrings that would have been fine for someone of 90, not 40, stands out; but that was a veritable festive dream compared to the year he gave her a china bird.
Was God angry because I had shown so much pleasure in the acquisition of a material object? Quite frankly, he could have cut me some slack. I’ve been banging on long enough about His great sunrises and sunsets and how much joy we should take in nature; was it really too much to ask that He spare me an oven glove for my troubles?