So, Tonight’s Conversation . . .┬á

 . . . between my wife and I.

Me:”I’ve just picked up a book about Julian of Norwich.” 

Jen:”Why?” 

Me:”You know who Julian was?” 

Jen:”Of course I do.” 

Me:”Who?”

 Jen:”A bloke from years ago. See-I surprise you don’t I? I might not know what he did, but I know he lived years ago. So there!”

 Me:”Julian of Norwich was a woman.” 

Jen:”Whatever.” 

A Child’s Moribund Pledge On Mother’s Day

The memory notifications on Facebook regularly throws up some forgotten gems. Yesterday I saw this, written in a Mother’s Day card by my then seven-year old daughter:

Mummy you are the prettiest, loveliest Mummy who is forty-three. I’m sorry I said I wouldn’t do your shopping when you wouldn’t let me go on Facebook. If you died in September I wouldn’t celebrate this day but I’d say prayers at your graveside.

The Four-Year Flight

 City Jackdaw has now been flying for four years. 

Despite just having to use the smelling salts, his wings aren’t showing signs of tiring just yet ­čÖé

To all you great people who visit me here in my cyber-roost, be it regular or occasional:


Except my anniversary was yesterday.

 So make that +1. 

I used to be a postman. Always late.

Thought For The Day

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.