I suppose I could go all whoopity-doodie over GB’s extraordinary successes in the Olympics, but it would be no less than disingenuous. The problem is that while I understand why the medal haul is extraordinary, and while I fully applaud the individuals hauling in the medals, it’s the Olympics themselves I find difficult to take all that seriously. I even suspect that they were re-established as yet another clever means of keeping the population of the world quietly and safely anaesthetized so the powerful people could carry on being quietly and safely powerful.
OK, so now I’m being a miserable old git. I agree; I am. It’s just that I have this odd conviction that I’m not allowed to be comfortable, much less happy, until all the world’s wrongs are righted. And that isn’t going to happen, is it? It isn’t.
So should I tell the story of the young elfin lass with the intense eyes who works in Tesco, the subtly odd story that began in the car park of Uttoxeter station about two years ago? No. Somebody might tell her, and then she might stare at me intensely (which she’s already done a couple of times,) and then I might tremble a little (which I didn’t, thank heavens,) and then I’d feel silly.
Right then, when all else fails, post a picture (or two.)
This is one I like because I thought it an inspired choice of tree and pose. And if you think Mel looks about twelve, I can assure you she wasn’t. She was still being asked for ID in pubs when she was thirty five, and likes nothing better than to be told: ‘My God, you’re looking old.’ (Even when you’re only joking.)
And this is Mel and Penny engaged in earnest conversation. You don’t get shots like this every day, you know. You don’t.
I think I should splash out on a bottle of gin. Back in the day when I used to drink the stuff, it never failed to put me in a most un-curmudgeonly mood. I found everything hilarious, and even fell under a table on one occasion. Would it be worth risking the cost?