On not being mad

On not being mad

A Friday evening. A Friday evening at home, where, once the Friday evening curry goat is dispatched and the children locked safely away under the sofa-bed, I like nothing better than to sit back and talk all the way through Coronation Street.

"You know what you haven't done for a long time," my charming wife asks me, in a veiled attempt to get me out of the room.

"You KNOW I promised Anthea Turner I'd stop sending the letters" I reply, genuinely upset at the insinuation.

"No, not that - you haven't spoken to your sister."

"Yeah. That as well. Pass the phone. I will DO THAT THING."

So, I did that thing, and:

"Hel-lo, Scarysister speaking."

"Oh, Hi. It's me. What are you up to tonight?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. I've got the house to myself and I'm just wrapping myself up in cling film."

Riiight….

"Riiight…"

"Then I'm going to take pictures and post them on the internet."

I take this news in for a few seconds, giving it the kind of deep thought this sort of hammer-blow deserves. After all, I thought I was the mental one in this family.

"You do realise I'm going to blog this. Blog this HARD."

Shamelessly, she tells me to do my worst, and still smarting from the scars of youth and the destruction of a go-kart three decades ago, I present this:

Wanted: Man, or near offer

I am – and it pleases me to say this – not mad.

"Ah-ha", you are thinking at this moment in time, "I know which site I want to visit next on my endless travels around cyberspace. It is the one with the 'Roy Orbison wrapped in cling film' stories. But I have no idea where to find it, and internet search engines vex me so."

Fear not. It is HERE.