Plastering over the cracks

Plastering Over the Cracks
Plastering Over the Cracks Photo credit: Flickr

“YOU’RE grumpy this week”, the Princess admonished me yesterday, and she was right,  It’s been one of those weeks when little annoyances that would normally have passed over my head have for some reason, stopped off and got up my nose.

I cut my finger whilst chopping some onions; not an unheard of occurrence.

I put a plaster on to the injured finger, only to have it slide off later when I washed my hands. So I hurriedly applied another.

I reckon I had to repeat this procedure at least five further times during the day, so the obvious question is: why don’t they make all plasters waterproof?

Then it was the European football on TV.  Players crossing themselves before the game with the ref. doing the same at the final whistle.  But only when he knew the cameras were on him I noticed.

It seems God has become a fashion icon.

I realise that the average professional footballer is not noted for his brain capacity, but puleese, could you be more original in celebrating a goal.  Here’s an idea, try shaking hands with your team mates.  How refreshing that would be.

Then there was some idiot being interviewed in Oxfordshire about Brexit (how sick I am of that word).

What is this nonsense where it seems fashionable to abandon the Queens English in favour of some quasi Jamaican dialect?

It’s great if you come from that exotic region, but ridiculous if you are a natural blonde and born in Banbury.

Dey has got dis weird way of walkin’ too, sorta like a swagga dat da Noo Yawk pimps do, know what ah meen.  An dey wave dhere hans abaht like dey is all rappers or sumfin, innit.

Give me strength.

To cap it all, I bought a new shirt – one of the boxed jobs, not something off the rail.

Look you guys, this is the 21st century, could you please stop putting those damned pins in everywhere, because having carefully removed them all, or so you think, there’s always one lurking in some dark place, painfully revealing itself when you slip the shirt on.

Back to the TV and my eyes were like revolving cherries on a one-arm-bandit when trying to spot the actors names after a particularly good movie.  Why bother to roll the credits if you have to have high speed eyeballs like Clark Kent in order to read that stuff?

I need a cold shower.

Which means yet another plaster I suppose.

© No part of this web site may be reproduced without written permission from the publishers. All rights reserved. Todos los derechos reservados.


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here