The diary of a bemused Boomer
I’m at a festival called Pigs in the Park. Or something similar. It’s one of those faux festivals, where there’s no sex or drugs or rock ‘n’ roll. It’s as close to the real thing as a tour of Madame Tussaud’s. The scent of marijuana has been replaced by the smell of BBQ pulled pork.Continue reading “Pigs in the Park”
As a child, I hated watching ‘Last of the Summer’s Wine’, the BBC sitcom about old men with nothing much to do with their lives but fool around. Now, I’m living it. Once upon a time, I pitied Compo, the clownish one of the trio. Wrapped in tweed and a cloth cap, his relentless joieContinue reading “Escape to the country? Why Not?”
Our car is as ancient as a Viking long ship and as glamourous as a discount warehouse baked bean can. Something inside the old jalopy smells bad, like pickled face flannel, but it’s not so bad that you want to puke and with the windows open it’s bearable over short distances. However, today, I’m drivingContinue reading “The car smells of Boomer despair”