I’m sorry Mr Darwin, but six and a half weeks summer holidays were never part of the natural order. We mess around with nature and we screw things up.
I overslept until 6.40am. Won’t sleep tonight now.
The Summer Solstice is actually in summer this year. Meteorologically speaking.
I just read this, in a review of Death Of The Poets, by Paul Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts:
‘ . . . as one psychologist is quoted as saying, “being a published poet is more dangerous than being a deep sea diver.” Versifiers are absolute martyrs to anorexia, agoraphobia, epilepsy, dipsomania, manic depression, paranoia, broken hearts and self-slaughter.’
Think it’s time for a career change.
I wish my wife would stop getting the kids cups with pictures on them. I’ve just spent five minutes trying to clean off a juice stain that turned out to be the blush on a baby duck’s cheek.
Should have gone to Specsavers.
I was singing along to Christmas songs. Walking In The Air came on: ended up with a neck like Deirdre Barlow.*
*for non-English readers, Deirdre Barlow was a character in a soap opera, whose straining neck chords were much commented on during emotional scenes.