The diary of a middle aged man
I’ve been hanging on the telephone for 45 minutes waiting to speak to the Office of the Public Guardian. Time is lounging in the corner of my study watching me and lazily picking his nose. Should he should cut his losses now and head off to the Bowls Club for the early evening grudge gameContinue reading “Hanging on the telephone”
I’m going to apply for the job as the head of the new Brexit Unit. That’s right, I want to be Lord Frost’s Brexit Svengali. I have no idea what Brexit is about but then neither does Boris Johnson, and Lord Frost, who we all thought was meant to be the expert, seems to have run outContinue reading “I want to be Lord Frost’s Brexit Svengali”
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.”