OK, so after some Coke and everything I was all fine on Saturday morning. Good enough to stagger down High St and get some brunch with Shine. Discussed my recent holiday, workmates’ indescretions (DON’T tell your workmates your drunk boyfriend vomited in your bed, they will tell everyone and think less of you) and shoes. I like Saturdays.
But now it’s Sunday and I have to go and buy plants, because the dogs have killed two little shrub things. I blame the dogs rather than my absolute neglect of them. Trees don’t need water, do they? Hey, there’s a drought on. They can take their chances with the rest of us.
I: ‘Could be worse…’
F: ‘How…?’
I: ‘It could be raining…’
A: ‘I met a man with a wooden leg named Smith.’
B: ‘What was the name of his other leg?’