This isn’t really all that funny, not least because for the past week or so I’ve been suffering not with a cold, not even with man-flu, but with some dreadful disease which would surely have reduced lesser men than me to snivelling, shivering wrecks, shells of their former selves, knocking on the door of death, but quietly because they lacked the energy to demand entry.
First off I want to allay your fears: by Schrödinger’s football, I don’t mean that anyone is going to kick a cat. No, by football, I just mean a football. Though for some of you by a football I mean a soccer ball. I hope that makes things clear.
It’s Sunday morning. I am at the gym. I have even been into the gym, though I admit I didn’t leave too many calories in there. Why? Because it’s Sunday morning, and Sunday is a day of rest. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it.
Anyway. Sunday morning means buying the Sunday papers …
“Time heals everything,” mum used to say.
“Just wait, bide your time, it will soon be our day.”
But the price of our suffering’s so much to pay.
Sixty five million years.
As a result of a present from Mrs J, whereby I could indulge my conviction that I am still a young testosterone-laden youth awash with derring-do, those nice people at the 6th Gear Experience in Surrey let me drive one of their cars. So it was that, controlling my excitement with practiced nonchalance, I strolled to join my instructor in this yellow beast, and settled myself comfortably in the oh-so-low driving seat …
The owl and the pussycat flew back home
from a trip to Marbella in Spain.
Three years since they married and both now looked harried
and romance was well on the wane.
Sam – that’s him above, asleep – has developed a strange habit, which, at 2pm might be amusing. At 2am it loses its entertainment value.