What do you do on a long drive? Every time I go to Skye, I get half-way there and think: ‘I’m never doing this again’.
Oh, the joy of watching old films. Before packing away my DVDs prior to moving, I thought I’d watch a few. I subscribed to Netflix recently but it rarely has anything I’m looking for.
For some time now, my mouth has been the centre of my life. No, madam, I do not refer to shouting the odds nor yet yabbering. I do not yabber. Indeed, I trust my obituary will say: “However, despite these many shortcomings, he did not yabber.”
Crowds have been stampeding through my house, poking and prodding, peering and sneering, but occasionally too oohing and aahing.
Good news for posties. Low-level letter boxes might be banned from all new buildings.
Last week, in a world exclusive report, I revealed how I was stalked from above as I waddled along the shore on Skye. The stalker was a drone, buzzing aboot, making a noise like a thousand angry bees.
I think we need to think about thinking this week. You think: “What’s he on about now?” I will now proceed, after a few deep breaths while marshalling my thoughts, to tell you precisely what I’m on about.
Let’s face it, this isn’t New anything that’s coming up on Tuesday. It’s Mid. “Mid-what?” you ask, knowing perfectly well but mindful of the fact that it’s panto season. Mid-winter, of course.
I’ve put on a bit of weight and it isn’t even Christmas yet. The trouble with this time of year is that, if you’ve any good intentions, you tell yourself: “Yes, I’ll definitely make a start on that… in the New Year.”
I have made a bags of my head again. Regular readers who take copious notes will recall that I cut my own hair. I just feel that handing over responsibility for one’s barnet to a stranger is risky, and I dislike the loss of control as one is strapped into the chair and sedated. Maybe that was just me, right enough.