A friend of a friend is getting divorced. It is not a happy spilt. In fact the friend’s friend’s wife is trying to ‘take him for everything’. I don’t know the details of the marriage, other than the wife and her family are very traditional. For the friend of a friend to try and end a marriage, even though it has irrevocably collapsed, is a betrayal. And for this he must pay, in time, energy and cash.
There’s going to be a code. It seems to be the sort of thing that manliness would have. That and an axe. Continue reading “What is manliness and where can I order it? “
When I was a child, I had very strict ideas about the lyrical structure of songs. It was crucial that songs must follow a narrative structure, similar to books and films. They must be about something. That something was revealed by the lyrics.
It was a point of honour. His own, naturally. What other people thought of his refusal to use the word was their own business. He cared less about their red-faced indignation than he did about anonymous, starving children in China.
And he cared not one sodding jot for those theoretical, pot-bellied whelps, he would say. To punctuate this punchline he would bring the glass of whisky to his mouth and take a smug gulp.
What you thought of him was merely a matter of your own opinion.
What happens when you own a stupid dog
Strange, isn’t it? How something so small that it arrives in a shoe box can loom so large in your imagination. They all arrive the same way: small and scared. Their sad eyes round with fear. They shiver and whine as big, loud faces circle them making cooing noises. They huddle down on a strange carpet, as around them swirls noisy awe and expectation.
Roy was no different.
When he first arrived he was the size of a child’s slipper. By the time he had grown, he hadn’t got much bigger: perhaps the size of a man’s shoe. He was just the right size to sit on someone’s lap and get his belly rubbed. Or have to leap up in a four legged bounce to keep his bearings in long grass.
His Stupid Name
This time C and I are standing in the middle of a huge apple orchard when it happens. That feeling; the one you get at some point on every countryside walk.
If only the guide book could list that moment when the trip slips from a pleasant outing to forced march.
It’s there on every walk. You take another step and suddenly you’re aware that, of all the things you could be doing on a summer Sunday, trekking through these fields should have been the least of them.
You can tell a lot about a person from what they choose to wear. For instance, every day on my way to work, I walk past a man who I have never spoken to. Yet I know he is overly confident.
I know this because he always wears trousers that are far too tight to be decent. He happily goes to work looking NSFW. That takes balls. Balls that we can all see pressing against his chinos like shrink wrapped quail eggs.
He also wears brown leather slip on shoes and no socks, so I can also comfortably predict he is a terrible person and has one of the jobs that has the words ‘social’ or ‘engagement’ in its title.