Bitch on the Blog

May 25, 2017

Spoilt for choice

There is a regular program on Radio Four (BBC, Sunday morning) called Desert Island Disks. Someone of relative public interest is invited to talk about their life and, intermittently, ten pieces of music of their choice are played.  They’ll then be asked to choose one of them to take with them – don’t say the BBC isn’t generous – before being shipped away and with little hope to return. You are given the Bible. You may choose one other book and one (in numbers 1) luxury item. No, not me. I am not a luxury item. I am cheap.

It’s amazing what people will choose as their luxury item. For heaven’s sake – who needs silk sheets in the middle of nowhere? Take a Swiss Army Pen Knife instead. What would I take? I don’t know. It’s not likely to be allowed within in the parameters of the programme but most likely a never ending supply of my favourite fruit/vegetable. Which is … What? Trying to come to a decision will take some time – a most welcome interval to delay the evil departure.

So, what about you? What’s your luxury item, food or otherwise, to take to the desert island? Please don’t say a harpoon. Life doesn’t work like that.

Tom Hanks greetings, and don’t forget to squirrel away some matches and don’t let them get wet during your voyage,

U

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July 15, 2013

Tale from the unsuspecting

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 14:17
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Some of my elders, youngers and betters may have something to say to me. Sternly.

I am fighting a battle. A battle between being impulsive (ie not living with a thought for tomorrow) and rationality (thinking about consequences). It’s a raging battle. Amply supported by foot soldiers like optimism, despair at three in the morning, and generally trying to work out what the hell is going on.

If I were a cheese I think someone should ripen me.

If I were a pear (particularly avocado) I’d buy myself on the market, with misgivings, and – on returning home – put myself into a brown paper bag in hope to ripen. Make that over-ripen. Inedible on the day you fancy a pear. Missing that little window of perfection.

No one wants to be a banana. If unattended and not eaten a banana will brown.

Probably best to be an apple. Though someone might choke on it. And a hundred years later a minor will kiss you. Which, these days, is, technically, not possible because you’d be done for leading someone, one hundred years younger than you, astray. The fault in the argument, and defense lawyers know this, that Sleeping Beauty didn’t ask to be kissed.

Yes, its’ a minefield out there. Going to do some severe filing now. Lest the apple of my eye will choke on the mess his mother is going to leave behind – at some point in the future. That’s what I hate about “the future”. There is a always a point. When? Future be what it may but it’s no logistics expert. You can’t expect people turning up at some terminal with hope in their heart. What you do in England is turn up at a train station. Your heart already sunk.

Happy Monday to you too. And it’s already thirteen minutes past three British Summer Time.

U

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