I don’t know how rough I look, but four times the guy on that stall in our local shopping centre has asked me if I’ve made a will yet.
I loved a photograph that I came across recently of Hollywood star Olivia De Havilland riding a bike on her 103rd birthday.
My wife asked me “I wonder if she ever gets to the point where she thinks her days are numbered?”
At 103 I’m sure it might have crossed her mind.
My wife: “I know for a fact that if I got with Prince Harry my life would change.”
Anyway, chippy tonight.
Have a great weekend everyone.
See you on the flip side.
My wife and I were in Specsavers on Friday, tasked with the simple job of picking a pair of glasses each for reading. It’s an age thing.
She handed me a pair of round ones to try on.
Jen: “You look like John Lennon. Or that other one.”
Jen: “Harry Potter. Try these.” She handed me a pair of black rimmed ones. I put them on.
Me: (Singing) “We-a-hell, the little things you say and do . . . ”
Me: ” . . . make me want to be with you-ah-ou . . . ”
Jen: “Do you like them?!”
Me: “Rave on, it’s a crazy feeling and . . . ”
Jen: “Do you like them or not?”
Me: “I know, it’s got me reeling . . . ”
Jen: “Yes or no?”
Me: “No. I told you I didn’t want any strong-rimmed ones. Do you know why I was singing that?”
Jen: “Yes, it’s Chuck Berry,”
Me: “It’s Buddy Holly!”
Jen: “I meant him.” I took them off, she handed me another pair.
Jen: “Try these. They’re green.”
Me: (Without looking at them.) “Put them back.”
Jen: “You’ve not even tried them.”
Me: “I’m not wearing green glasses.”
Jen: “Well what about these?”
Me: “I look like Dame Edna Everage.”
Jen: “You don’t!”
Me: “I don’t want glasses with sparkly bits on them.”
Jen: “They’re not sparkly.”
Me: “They’re like Elton John’s in his Rocket Man days.”
Jen: “Right! I’ll pick mine first then.” She put a pair on.
Jen: “What about these?”
Me. “Let’s see. Nah, I don’t like them.”
Jen: “What do you bleeding know about glasses anyway?!”
Can’t wait until we qualify for dentures.
I found my Mum’s lower set of false teeth on the floor in the back of my wife’s car, and as she lives next door to us I sent my son to post them through her letter box.
At least I think that they are hers. I can just see her in the morning:
“Guess what the postman brought?”
Bananarama are back.
Keep singing over the weekend. The old ones are the best.
See you on the flip side.
Apologies are winging your way if I’ve not replied to your comments or visited your blogs recently. I’ve had a little fly in the ointment, so to speak, which is non-technical jargon for I’ve been having problems with WordPress recently and I haven’t a clue why.
I’m writing this post in the hope that it has now been rectified, and if it hasn’t, well, there’s only me reading this and you guys are none the wiser. Please let me know.
A couple of days ago, at a motorway service station, I was walking down a corridor, flanked the whole way by a glass window, whilst seeking out the Gents. At the end of the corridor a little girl was loudly banging on the glass. “Look, Daddy, pigeons!”
Her father, wearing the forlorn look of one waiting for his wife to come out of the toilet, a look I knew only too well, replied: “They aren’t pigeons, darling, they’re crows.”
As I passed them both I too glanced out at the birds.
Actually, they are not crows, I thought to myself, they are jackdaws.
And, with a certain smugness:
And I should know, being, unknown to you, the anonymous author of the City Jackdaw blog.
I didn’t say this, of course, for who was I to destroy the little child’s fantasy of her all-knowing father.
And besides, at that moment in time, I couldn’t even get City Jackdaw to work.