Time is relative
Take the football tonight. Telly on.
Fizzy water, bread, pate, gherkins. Blink. There's the clock, mate.
Twenty minutes gone. Already. How did that happen? Conversely, try
five minutes in the company of someone who thinks their diet, their
aerobics / spinning / Zumba classes, or last night's soaps or skating
/ dancing / jungled / Big Brothered celebs are of huge interest. Each
passing microsecond feels like an eternity.
Childhood Sundays were like that. Up
and off out. Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. Suddenly, evening and the
dreaded call. Tea-time. Ti...ck...to...ck. Tough grey indeterminate
meat with overcooked vegetables. Tick...tick...tick, slowing down.
Songs of Praise on the telly. School tomorrow. That's it. The second
hand's flatlining. The minute and hour hands are static.
An empty jar of gherkins reminds
me...
...of Charlie Connelly's gloriously
insane Attention all Shipping. He went around all those locations
where the visibility, weather, wind speed etc. is listed: Cromarty,
Dogger, Lundy, German Bight, Rockall (that's Rockall, okay?). Or,
where the is no land at the places, the nearest point. Why the
gherkins? He visited some mental cases living on an ultra-exposed,
cold and windy outpost of Scandinavia. They gave him some of the
local, incredibly strong vodka, with some of the juice that remains
in the jar when the gherkins are gone as a mixer.
Later he visited an old WWII concrete
platform, which had declared independence and was in the process of
minting its own currency.
Anyway, I've had a sip of the gherkin
juice. By way of research, sans vodka. Actually, it isn't bad, but
it'll never catch on.
Talking of boring
Jug-eared Tottenham tosser Lineaker is
trying to sell Royal Ascot at half time in the Spain v Croatia game.
Yes Gary. Posh nobs in very silly hats and races between identical
brown horses won by one of the brown horses from the remaining brown
horses. I'll file it with the Olympic swimming and those dieting
telly-watching gym class people, under 'avoid at all costs'.
A few years back, in not so PC days, a
journalist (unbelievably) writing in the Guardian questioned the
entertainment value at the Olympics, which he described as “skinny
tarts running around in circles”.
Come on Ireland
I've thought about it (not for very
long) and for the good of everything that's right and decent, I want
Ireland to sneak a draw or better still a win, and for Italy to be
packed off home. I can't see that happening.
Beauty sallon at home
Having waxed me half to death
yesterday, it's hair colouring time and there's a lot of purple water
in the kitchen sink.
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