The diary of a bemused Boomer
The catkins are hanging off the willows and lolling on the walls of the houses on the Mall, thick as butcher’s fingers and yellow as nicotine. Spring is here. I’m pondering nothing very much as I potter along the river towards a piss-up with pals in a pub in Putney when the sun and theContinue reading “I drink therefore I am. Or why life is a load of old bowls.”
My wife looks up and sniggers. The children turn around, exchange a shrug of their eyebrows and swivel back to their cereal bowls. ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask myself. Is the cat behind me moon walking on the hob or playing table football with the butter dish? He’s always trying to upstage me with hisContinue reading “Should men wear Alice bands?”
It’s five months since Mother got sucked into a demented game of ping pong between us, hospital and her nursing home. Four falls, four visits. Still fighting. In that time, she’s fractured her hip, caught Covid and won the Cheeriest Personality of the Year at the local gerontology department’s Christmas awards after charming them duringContinue reading “Moonpig, Mother and me during lockdown”