MP pointed out my readership hadn’t shrunk thanks to the amateur photography, more that people were relieved that I wasn’t seriously ill. It hadn’t entered my head..
There was a time when Jim Henson’s puppets released records. “Halfway up the Stairs”, Kermit’s nephew sung, ponderously, “is the stair where I sit. There isn’t really any other quite like it. It’s not at the bottom. It’s not at the top. But this is the stair where I always stop”. I’d add it to my playlist, but don’t dare encourage little B's interest in the turntable: he finds thumping it immensely satisfying (maximum adult response guaranteed, having bust the previous one). His mother has been reduced to saying, “B! Naughty Step! Now! f – I’ll pay for another one”.
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The sheer horror on MP’s face on spotting the industrial quality margarine – the fairy cake cookbook recommended it, and was spot on. Lifting the veil is seldom wise.
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I slept midnight to 2am: what did they give me? I feel no pain. Haven’t taken anything since they took the drip out.
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