Overheard in the men’s, this conversation between two eight- or nine-year olds, as they wetted the dirt on their face at the washbasin... Enjoy!
IF I were a mother, and English, I would be ashamed of most of my children. Honestly, when will they ever learn it is Mother’s Day and not Mothers Day? Everywhere I go I see special offer signs. The
Amazing what happens when you throw a crusty old subject at a bunch of young minds and ask them to write. I did that a few times in the last two years and came away pleased.
I am sick, and terribly-terribly infectious: I give people the 'blog bug'.
Why, oh why, my web-shy friends ask me, do I try to bully them into the blogosphere? Why do I insist on talking blogs at the drop of my non-existent hat?
The way I see it, if my young friends need a gun to their heads before they introduce themselves to the wonderful life out there, so be it. I will hold that gun. Happily.
Art, or anything close to it, is completely wasted on me. That’s a known fact. Still I went to an art exhibition at Gallery 286 in London the other day.
He dies, you die, I die; life stops for no one. Life stops only for the one who died.
Bournemouth is associated with two great personalities besides me: Geoffrey Boycott and Bill Bryson.
Racism I had been told, is a favourite pastime in England. They don’t seem to play that particular sport much over here in Bournemouth (pronounced ‘Bon-moth’, with unnecessary vehemence attached to the first bit), except for poking fun at Americans endlessly.