I have a large scar on my right arm. It was not caused by an operation nor by receiving a slash from one of those peculiar people you read about who go up town on a Saturday night with a Samurai sword stuffed down their trousers.
I have told a small white lie. Again. I started the practice a good few years ago and felt, at the age of 48, that it was just a part of growing up. No longer an angel, ken?
I've just carried out my own mini-redd up. Checking out various etymological dictionaries, no one seems sure of the origin of the term, though the most authoritative attribute it to old Scots.
I have been working in the most beautifully situated college in the country, perhaps even in the world.
To sleep perchance. Dream on. Like the vast majority of decent ratepayers, I rarely get a good night’s kip.
I have reached a point of crisis in my early morning routine. Before elaborating, allow me first to define my terms.
The question is: could a man in my position be seen attending a concert, or “gig”, featuring psychedelic rock music tinged with Swedish folk influences?
As usual, I should have got a man in. I am painting all the doors in my home. It’s not so much a competence thing as a time thing. Never realised there were so many doors. I only meant to paint one or two, but liked the results so much, I thought I’d do the rest.
The gardening implements at Swanky Towers have Rab McNeil feeling slight pangs of envy – though he wonders if they would work for him anyway.