As amusing as the Milwaukee bimbo episode was (and I’m ashamed to admit that I did chuckle a couple of times,) I was never much attracted to bimbos myself. That isn’t meant as a criticism. They were very good to look at and had effervescent personalities an’ all, but… well… they weren’t exactly the Holy Grail, were they? I was more the guy with the speech cards telling Keira Knightley how perfect she was, and how he’d love her until she looked like a desiccated mummy (which is how I know he probably wouldn’t.)
I’ve said it before, and it bears repeating, that romantics generally get through life fairly well, whereas Romantics are almost invariably sad people. They have an unfortunate habit of riding after mirages until the snow is thick on the ground, all their friends are hanging lifeless from sundry trees in wild places, and they only remain standing because they’ve become too insane to give in gracefully and fall over. It’s all pretty inevitable, actually.
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Talking of mirages and insanity, the village pub is planning to open all day on Sunday for St Patrick’s Day (with live music, no less.) I haven’t yet decided whether to stick my head around the door, but I’m reminded that I only ever knew two people who were born on St Patrick’s Day. Although neither was perfect, they were both pretty impressive, albeit in different ways.
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The only big news worth recounting today is that the priestess is home from America. She said she went on a ‘gallery crawl’ a couple of nights ago and came back on a train. It’s odd how somebody saying they’ve been on a train makes them somehow more real. I haven’t worked that one out yet. Should I call across the miles, I wonder, or keep to my place? Yeah, OK.