Just had a phone call.
Not sure why I answered it, really.
The carers, something about my mother.
The carer: “Hello. Is BLISS there?”
The Frankly I Don't Give a Damn-er (Me): [Thinks: the first T20 finals day game is just about to start, why on earth do you think I'm interested in my mother, who could, for all I care right now, be atop somewhere very high and threatening to jump] “No.”
The carer: “it's just that she needs her toenails cutting, badly.”
The Frankly I Don't Give a Damn-er: [Thinks: don't you mean she needs her toenails cutting well?] “Right”. (Puts the phone down). [Thinks: you have no idea about what's going on in the world, do you, missus?].
She has such a fragile grip on reality, the carer, that she does not insist that I repeat what she's said, or that I write it down. She thinks I'll remember. Fat chance.
Meanwhile, away from gaga carer land, back to reality, and Sky Sports 2, Surrey opening with Mahmood and Dernbach, Ian Bell twatting them out of the park for thirty-odd from seventeen balls, Elvis is in the crowd, next to the Joker, just up from a herd of Wallies in hooped red shirts and bobblehats.
Surrey / Birmingham, then Hampshire / Lancashire. Right Here, Right Now, Boom (Shake the Room), as they walk out. Another One Bites the Dust blasting out of the PA when they walk back.
Later there's our away game at Everton.
Toenails?
Get a grip lady.
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