The diary of a bemused Boomer
Dad slept like a dead man. Photo: Caitlin McCall My dead father visits me now and again. He stands at the side of my bed and whispers: ‘I forgive you.’ That’s all. ‘I forgive you.’ Then he vanishes before I can ask him what the Hell he thinks he’s forgiving me for? Things should beContinue reading “My dead father visits me”
I’m down on my hands and knees trying to escape from the men’s urinal at the Neapolis Archaeological Park by squeezing myself underneath the turnstile at the exit. I’m trapped in a toilet turnstile. I’m going out the way I came in not because I’m playing a perverse version of Parkour or because of aContinue reading “Trapped in a toilet turnstile”
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”