Just looking over some past blogs. Didn’t realise I was such a miserable bastard. And there was I picturing myself as a rakish blade with wit to spare. Born in the wrong century. Should have been wandering around in sack cloth grubbing for scraps with the pigs.


“What’s that smell? What’s that horrible smell? What IS that smell?’ harped some old crab being wheeled around the supermarket today.

Her husband remained blank faced and too polite to point out the impossibility¬† of smelling anything in the air conditioned sterility of a Sainsbury’s mint mart.

“It’s horrible, horrible. Where is that smell coming from,” the crone repeated like some loop taped parrot.

Take about getting stick in mid-town traffic. I felt like leaning down and whispering in her flap: “You smell the rot of your own corpulent flesh you denizen of the Eighth Gate. Now begone and let me shop for my doughnuts in peace.”

Cruel I know but necessary to prevent me pushing her wheelchair and all into the large utility hole being dug outside the shop.

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