13st 10lb; 6.0 units of alcohol yesterday (because there are apparently 3.0 of the buggers in a “full English pint” bottle of Wells’ Bombardier); 1,370; struggling on the tough ascent towards Base Camp.
I’m feeling much more cheerful today, thank God, though Radio 4 insists on challenging my upbeat mood and cosy middle class certainties by having the 7 o’clock news read by someone who appears to me to have a serious speech impediment. It’s the woman whose fruity delivery of the endlessly repeated trail “1968, myth or reality?” (a bloody stupid question in any event for those of us who vividly remember living through it) practically had me hurling the old Tivoli Personal Audio Laboratory out of an upstairs window. Kathy Clugston, she’s called, which is a name only a small fraction away from being a Monty Python working class stereotype. According to her sometime agent’s website, what she offers is “friendly warm delivery with a soft Northern Irish accent”. I just wish she’d go and deliver something door-to-door in Belfast, then, where I wouldn’t have to hear her doing it. “Clugston” does not sound like a Roman Catholic name, so I suppose there is no point initiating a petition to have her sent to join an order of silent nuns. And as for the broadcasting capabilities of Robert Peston …
What’s more, it’s raining. But then it is a Bank Holiday weekend in England, so what else should one expect? Still, it’s ideal weather for listening to two weeks’ worth of the Archers Omnibus while tackling a veritable Himalaya of ironing.
I can remember when I was a promising young academic / investment analyst / PR man. How on earth did it come to this?
The amazingly unlikely true story of how a grumpy old man and lifelong bachelor won the love of a beautiful young woman and started a family – and all by writing a curmudgeonly blog about his lonely journey to the grave.
Now who would have predicted that?
No comments:
Post a Comment