Queen Elizabeth is dead. For us baby boomers this was a sad albeit inevitable occurrence. Like waking each morning to find that gravity has dragged your buttocks a little closer to the floor.
Of course, we feel sorry for Charles. His upbringing was lonely and forlorn.
Ever since Bill Clinton’s campaign strategist famously said ‘it’s the economy stupid’ (it’s a shame he didn’t also say, ‘Bill don’t smoke cigars near the interns’) it’s all politicians ever talk about. Not that I blame them. If the masses have money to buy posh pies and TVs they are less likely to set fire to shop fronts and everyone remains as happy as a python picnic in a piggery.
Take Mary Magdalene for example. Like us, Mary was looking forward to the Easter break. There she was scrolling through scrolls looking for available accommodation in Jerusalem when she finds out that on Easter Friday her friend Jesus is going to be crucified. Well, that put an end to any ideas of a holiday. Holiday break spoiled.
Putin is a bastard, and I think I know why. There appears to be some serious conjecture about Putin’s height. There is no public record of how tall he is but there are references to him having lifts in his shoes and a propensity to stand next to children for photographs. This would rather seem to point to Putin being short.
Lockdown is over and Covid is slowly revealing an uncertain future. However, one thing I know for sure about the nature of future work is that Zoom will not be in it.
Not Zoom, not Skype, not Teams, not two honey pots connected with string. Covid forced us inside to a world of soft furnishings and baked goods but despite the temptation of TV and a fridge full of cold sausages, we endeavour to work – work harder than ever.
Because we are social beings (unlike librarians), we like to socialise and communicate face to face. In a lockdown this was problematic. Some of us resorted to ‘coronavirus prostitution’….
I’m in a bit of funk. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing to really complain about. I have my health, work is busy, and now that the dog is dead, I have no constraints nipping at my heels. So why the funk? Middle-aged boredom? Possibly. Nine years ago I turned 50 and it did come as a bit of shock. I think it was that realisation that somewhere back there I had peaked. If only I’d known. Now at fifty-nine, I’m sliding potbellied first into….
India – More intense than a basket of snakes There were many things about India that I expected. I figured that Delhi belly was a potential hazard, and despite having more inoculations than the Bubble Boy, I indeed managed to spend time heaving into what I hoped was a working sewerage system (I had no desire […]
When I now relay this experience, it certainly answers the question. Yes, I suffered in the unwashed hands of India. Surprisingly, this answer is honest, and substantially approved of. A ‘two for one’, or ‘meal deal’ you might say. You see, it turns out that people who haven’t been to India are terrified of Delhi Belly, and this fear forms a large part of their justification for not having been. For them, I had, in one lousy meal, proven that no sane man should travel to such parts. I had confirmed their worst fears.
London has more billionaires than any other place on earth, seventy-seven at last count. This is not because if you live in London you will become filthy rich (although I hear there’s money in coffee), it’s because London is so desirable that the well heeled choose it as home.
Whether it’s football oligarchs or Internet moguls, London is a playground for the wealthy. Disneyland without the mouse. The city has everything. Leather bound shops, parks, pleasant tree lined streets, art galleries and museums, more clubs and restaurants than fish in the sea, all perfectly packaged within an ambience of refined civilised excitement.
However, this was not always the case. London is not accidentally nice. Back in the 1830’s when Charles Dickens was writing about London life….
While Taranaki is a great place to live, what with the mountain and sea and everything, it has always been just a smidge on the chilly side. Not cold enough for puffer pants and not warm enough for jandals as evening wear.
For generations we have accepted this rather middling state of affairs, and then one day all of a sudden, wham bam like a Batman one two, we had a summer hotter than Jamie Dornan in a light sweat. Everyday the sun shone like a big orange sun thing. We threw ourselves into the sea and the golf ball rolled on and on. Never before seen Orcas frolicked on Fitzroy beach and the deafening din of cicadas was music to our sunburnt ears.
