Eighteen years ago, a packet of Nestle Clusters fell down the side of the cupboard. I’ve just managed to get it out now by virtue of a length of string and a pebble-weighted piece of discarded plastic packaging with a hefty layer of glue on the bottom.
Question is – will the cereal be good to eat? The packaging hasn’t been opened and the expiry date is only March 2003.
Imagine you’ve got a time machine – what kind of voice will it have.
Well, it’s be configurable. It’d have setting like the tills have in M&S or Poundland so that you can have a bit of a ‘ho, ho, ho’ at Christmas or a touch of Elvis whenever you feel like it. If I was fortunate enough to be the one to configure the voice of a time machine then I’d steal the machine and go forward in time and win the lottery then go back in time with the money and buy a whole set of shares for myself like Amazon and Tesla and all those companies that are doing well right now. Then I’d bring the machine back and give it the voice of Jesus Christ (our saviour). And they’d all be, like, who’s this? And I’d be, like, it’s JC, man! Don’t you recognise him? And they be, like, yeah, the Aramaic totally gave it away, but, Dude – I was thinking you’d be better to go for something more recognisable – like Thomas the Tank Engine.
Bare əθ isn’t bare. Look closely; their tracks are there. Absence signifies more than fullness. History has passed over this spot. Sack the dumps and you will find more. We who were here have laid bare the əθ. Bare of life, but not of its passing. We was here. We passed on. Onward we go.
I was just stood looking at this wall and wondering why a daddy-long-legs was sat on it, facing the stone wall and doing nothing in particular, when I realised that I was doing exactly the same thing. Perhaps it’s thinking about how nice this morning is with its birdsong, sunshine, and an inherent (or do I mean implicit (or maybe some other word beginning with i)) promise of a life of ease.
Twenty-eighty-four will he the year that I turn one-hundred-and-twenty. And I plan to live to see it. After that? Who knows. Maybe I’ll live and maybe I won’t. Let’s see.
The chances of you seeing what happens after twenty-eighty-four aren’t too bad. After all, you’re probably younger than me by a good, long chalk (whatever that means). Say you’re in your twenties (for example) now, then you’ll only be in your eighties when I have this birthday party that I’m so looking forward to (of course you’re invited!) and so, well, you’ll definitely be up and dancing to whatever music’ll be around then.
I plan to be good all the way through to my hundred-and-twentyth. I’ll be strong and fit and healthy and won’t have been in the hospital for any other reason than to see what they do there. They’ll probably invent loads of new-fangled medical stuff for us all to gawp at over the the next sixty years or so. Who wouldn’t want to have a neb?
So, yeah – probably I need to start sketching out the good stuff I’m going to do to fill all my tomorrows and so I’d best be off to make a start on that; but for now – have a lovely day; you deserve it.