“Not every problem does have a simple bookkeeper’s solution based on cost.”
Which is why I sign off my current (official) correspondence with
I remain disgusted yours,
Can’t say I feel passion for the subject. Only mild annoyance.
Every so often the question pops up why men are Mr and a woman is all sorts.
Forget Miss, Mrs, Ms … in that order. What is of far more a nuisance to me is the eternal question on official forms (probably mentioned this before – if so, sorry to repeat myself but I only have one brain): Are you single, married, divorced, widowed?
Single? Married? Divorced? Widowed? It’s inane. Those who are married have it easy. They tick “Married” even if they are Liz Taylor – many times divorced and possibly (have forgotten now) widowed once or twice, currently married.
No doubt this country’s strange laws will conjure up a court order, a flogging and a fine for my ticking that which I am. Which is single. Previously divorced.
Sometimes, to brighten up some much stressed out bureaucrat’s boredom, I will tick TWO boxes (single and divorced – ain’t that the truth). But you never know. The law moves in mysterious ways and one of these days I’ll be obliged to swear an oath. Probably on the Bible. I respect the Bible but not to the extent of saving my neck. You want truth? Ask me to swear on my son’s life or my grandmother’s grave. Which wouldn’t make any difference to my marital status. Which is …
Being given to day dreaming I have nightmares.
In a recent poem, written by him and addressed to me, the Angel confirms that his mother is “an eternal optimist”, ” … a woman with her heart on her sleeve”. I am so glad he didn’t mention gun powder.
Can’t quite remember when they introduced the National Lottery in England. Early Nineties – I think. So I played. Faithfully. Once a week. At £1.00 (in words: One Pound Sterling) a shot. Six numbers. Out of 49.
A few years ago the price to stake your faith on six numbers went up to TWO Pounds Sterling. As anyone I have lent money to knows: I most certainly do not count pennies. Though even chickenfeed piles up to a veritable compost heap. Yes, so – in line with Mr Micawber – I hardly ever play the lottery any longer. Eternal optimist or not. Two pounds Sterling have – in recent years – become a veritable amount of money. For two pounds you can buy (in the UK) an ugly yet delicious head of celeriac and some other root vegetable. Who needs to starve if you can keep your nerve and NOT play the lottery?
I have upped the stakes. On a benign recent cash injection I felt (the Council not withstanding) flush. So flush I put down six numbers on a ticket. To promptly forget to hand it in on time.
There are two types of people. And I am one of them. Those who will NOT check the lottery numbers at four in the mo(u)rning and those who will. I am the latter. That comes from having read Tolstoy et al (Russians) at an impressionable age. You fling caution to the winds. You think of Hemingway.
Psychologically, it’s an interesting experiment. As you google ‘results’ your adrenaline rises. My computer being on its last leg – loading slowly – you have time to conjure up dream scenarios. You have even more time to try and second guess how you’d react if those numbers you haven’t played came up.
PS They didn’t. So glad I saved myself two pounds.