Forgive me, but as I sat down to write tonight I suddenly realised that I am quite knackered out and not able to give of my best. So I have taken the liberty of reposting this from a couple of months ago. I hope you enjoy it.
There are times when I get bored with low fat spread on my toast and yearn for the full creamy taste of real butter. Yesterday morning was one such time and I thought to myself, "sod the cholesterol". Having made the momentous, and, if I say so myself, extremely brave decision. I am risking a heart attack here you know! I hurried down to the local shop. Where I purchased a nice slab of Lurpak. I was about to leave the shop when my eyes lit upon a new type of loaf. 'Our thickest slice ever', proclaimed the label, and just to hammer home the message a bit more, 'DOORSTEP'. "I'm having some of that", I quickly decided. Yes I know, sometimes I can be completely reckless.
When I got home I was almost drooling with anticipation. The thought of eating my thick doorsteps, with lashings of naughty butter dripping off hot toast was almost too much to bear.
Oh bloody hell! Sorry, excuse my French. The bread was too thick to fit into the toaster! But do not despair. I was determined to have my hot buttered toast and managed after a bit of a struggle to force the slices in. Shouldn't have done that! Silly thing to do. I couldn't get them out! Stuck fast they were. Like a fat bloke in a turnstile.
Now please, please take good note. If ever you get your toast stuck in the toaster never try to get it out with a metal object. Such as a fork for example. It is extremely unwise. Especially if you forget to switch it off first!
Please don't be concerned. I am assured by the Paramedics that, after I recover from my slight concussion, I am going to be fine. Toaster is buggered though. Wasn't tough enough to withstand the explosion! Tomorrow, after the man from the electricity company has fitted the new fuse box, I shall buy a new toaster. One with wider openings. Well, I'm not going to waste all that lovely butter.
On my way into town today I was thinking how quiet the roads are. Maybe it's got something to do with the price of petrol. Anyway the road was remarkable clear and I was making good progress on my way to visit my friends Bob and Jackie. Who are, incidentally, lovely people. (I put that in just in case they read this). Blimey that sounds bad! No honest I mean this. They are lovely people.
Where was I? Oh yes. On my way to town. There was a car in front of me and I was gaining on it rapidly. It was moving very slowly, about twenty five mph so I thought I would overtake it. Then suddenly had second thoughts about the overtaking and was stuck behind it for miles. No way was I going to overtake a 'Maserati'. I know what these drivers of powerful cars are like. Anyway I don't like to race in my 'Nissan Serena'. I reckon I could have taken him though.
My Son George's phone has stopped working. It's completely 'kaput'. This malfunction caused a bit of a crisis. When his Mother went to pick him up from college, she couldn't find him. After waiting twenty minutes or so and working herself up into a blue funk with worry, she called me. "I can't find George. Do you think he's alright?" I could hear the note of panic in her voice and tried to reassure her. "Don't be daft you silly cow". No I didn't really say that. I'm not that unfeeling. I just thought it. What I did say was. "What do you mean you can't find him? Where have you looked?"
Well it turns out she hadn't looked anywhere. She was sat in the car. I suggested, kindly, I thought, that if she was worried she should go to reception and see if they could help. On her way to the reception desk she 'found' George, who had no idea he was lost, sitting on a bench chatting to his mates, the way 17 year olds tend to do. Now don't tell her this, but I was a bit worried too. Well he is my boy. My little Georgie, my ickle bickle boy, my boysie woysie, my lickle..... Sorry about that. Got carried away, a bit emotional.
There is a point to this little anecdote. It's this. If you want to keep in touch with someone, do not, I repeat, do not, put their mobile phone into the washing machine on a hot wash.
I bumped into a bloke down the village today, outside the Co-op. Flipping expensive shop that. He greeted me heartily. "Hallo Dave, old mate. How you doing?" He carried on calling me Dave all through our conversation. Which just to let you know was about old bangers. When I say old banger I'm talking about motors not some old tart! I realise that I should have pointed out his mistake to him sooner, but by the end of our conversation he almost had me convinced that my name actually was Dave. As we parted he said. "I'll pop in and see you sometime. You still living at...?" And he mentioned an address I'd never heard of let alone lived at. At this stage I realised that he didn't actually know me and I didn't actually know him. It's alright for him though. He thinks I'm Dave. I ain't got a bloody clue who he is!
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