The diary of a bemused Boomer
Mother is sitting at a table by herself. Her fingers rest on the edge of a cup and saucer half full of spilt tea. Her eyes are open, and her head is tilted backwards, perhaps thirty degrees. I can’t tell if she is gazing up a slight incline towards Heaven or is asleep. Whichever itContinue reading “Chocolate: the opiate of old age”
Sunday. I walk into the kitchen hoping for a quiet breakfast brew and an update from the papers on Boris Johnson’s latest falsehoods, fabrications and fibs, only to discover that overnight Netflix have converted my kitchen into the film set for a new version of George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’. The place is swarming with youngContinue reading “Sweatbreads? What an offally nice idea”
My wife and daughter are organising each other. Though it’s not yet seven in the morning, they’re excitedly swopping instructions like bees who’ve just discovered a meadow popping with pollen a short flight from the hive. I don’t bother listening too closely to what they’re saying. There’s no point. I will get my orders soonContinue reading “The Day of the Empty Nester”