You will remember how I used to prattle about the suburban forest where I walked several times a week. Don’t pretend now. You remember perfectly well.
I ask you to be upstanding and join me in a toast to that most noble of professions: the cleaner.
This news just in, folks: nothing is simple. I witter in the wake of a day in which I found that not one item I needed would open, work or switch on easily. And that included a can of sparkly water.
This boy has a new toy. You’ll be horrified when I tell you bluntly what it is. For it is a knife.
I AM back on schedule. There’s a TV in the tiny flat where I’m currently residing, but it didn’t work: “weak or no signal”, it warned in the heartless way of the machines. The landlord suggested getting an aerial booster but that made no difference either.
WE share our lives with beasties. In so saying, I’m not referring to a general relationship with other creatures on the planet. No, I’m referring to a far more intimate relationship – with beasties that help themselves to our lives.
I’ve been spilling food down my front again. My front is hardly front-page news. Spillages down it are an everyday occurrence. Diary entry: “Got up. Spilled food down shirt. Watched telly. Went to bed.”
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.
It’s the time of the toad. Signs have gone up beside the pond at the foot of the suburban hill warning stravaigers to watch out for amphibians underfoot.
I’ve been back to the hardware store again. I always enter with trepidation in case the shopkeeper asks me a technical question.