Sometimes – from the fastness of the secret government bunker within which I work – are issued questionnaires, designed to plumb the very core of the minds of residents of our fair city. They are ostensibly composed of deceptively simple questions, in this case about disabled bays, but are cunningly constructed to bring forth deep psychological responses.
Today we received one back, anonymous, with a neatly typed rectangle of paper pritt-sticked to it.
‘Disabled people are a waste of space,’ it read. ‘They blather on about being equal to everyone else, and yet they have to have their own bays. What they need is euthanasia, and they can then serve the community by becoming lampshades, soap and fertiliser.’
I’m not usually one who is easily shocked, but I must confess to being a little alarmed by this.
There are people out there who have thought long enough about this issue to have come up with the idea of turning people into lampshades.
Later, I was wandering around Marks & Spencer, as you do, crumbling the crusts on the crusty rolls, just for the hell of it. I had my headphones on, listening to (although this is hardly relevant) The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, when an odd-looking old lady began tapping at my arm. I removed one headphone, guardedly, as women in Marks & Spencer have been proven to be – in a nationwide study – far more predisposed to violence than female shoppers in other stores.
‘Are you a musical person?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry?’ I responded, for the moment a little confused by the question.
‘Musical. Are you musical, luv?’
‘I imagine so,’ I replied. It is of course a historic euphemism for men like myself, who exist in the twilight lavender world of Dynasty fans.
‘I thought so. Good for you, son!’ she said, and gave me a hearty slap on the back before tottering off to tut at the state of the crusty rolls.
Back in the lavender world of Twilight, I cooked scampi and chips for the Ugly One and we caught up with some more Dynasty.
Alexis is putting it about that Fallon’s father is not Blake but Jeff’s oily uncle Cecil (pronounced Sea-sill). I can’t see that at all. He looks more musical than Liberace. Meanwhile, a new Italian Doctor is on the scene, Doctor Angus Canelloni, or some such name. He is up to no good, and is prone to making mysterious calls to an unknown recipient.
Before I went to bed I checked my e-mail and discovered that the editor of the marvellous magazine Monkey Kettle wishes to publish more of my work. Hoorah!