Let me start by dedicating today’s thoughts to a young chum called Melisa.  It appears that she and her father enjoy reading my blog together and may I congratulate them on an excellent choice of an improving bedtime story for any young person.

I used to read my own children tales from the comic ‘Viz’ , especially the one called ‘Spoilt Bastard’ hoping in vain they would spot the similarities and change their ways.  Another top source was ‘Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes’ – you think that’s an invention?  Google it and send me a tenner.  Still in print, people.

Young Melisa labours under the rather appealing belief that given a choice Boris Johnson would marry her rather than me. (A notion up there with unicorns and Santa)  If he did, young lady, it would be a welcome sign that he had at last managed to contain at least one of his more ridiculous ambitions.  Let us simply recall that George Clooney even named one of his twins after me which was a sweet gesture but ever so faintly needy.

Now on to more important matters.  Christmas is survived and the turkey only a thing of memory.  Despite having persuaded me to send thousands of pounds on pate, cheeses, hams and other over-priced victuals the children spent the entire festive period on a diet of Turkish Delight and Quality Street.

(I myself ate mainly sherry trifle – I’m an adult.  And incidentally did not gain an ounce of weight.  Could this at last be the Holy Grail of dieting?)

They have, if nothing else, a respect for British traditions which means that there are ample provisions for my forthcoming party which I have decided, in a flash of inspiration that is my trademark, is to be gin based.

Who doesn’t love gin and haven’t I got enough bottles to float the Titanic?  All I have to do is get a few mixers (Although that is probably unnecessary), slice some lemons and passion fruits, fill the ice bucket and we’re sorted.  It will be a sophisticated event, quite unlike the wine-based brawl of last year and we will no doubt compare tasting notes and toast the eventual happy outcome of the Brexit fiasco.  An result possibly up there with Melisa’s fairies.

Let me finish by replying to all of you who have wondered why yet again I have not been mentioned in the New Year’s Honours.  Because that’s not why I reach out to you, readers, not for temporal reward.  All I ever hope for is that I bring a little comfort and joy into your  lives in an educational, inclusive and above all, caring way.  Fingers crossed for next year.

And let’s hope it is good for us all.  Happy 2019 one and all.

It says something for the indomitable spirit of humanity that despite having endured the routine incompetence of daily life for many decades I can still find it in me to be moved to something approaching fury.  I refer to the fiasco that is the events at Gatwick Airport.

Yesterday I was at a friend’s house listlessly shovelling mince pies into my mouth (Note to self:  really very fine pastry, must get her to make some for the freezer) and discussing the fact that we had been roused from early onset festive torpor (brought on mainly by the over consumption of said mince pies and alcohol) by the sorry events at Britain’s second largest airport.

It was a Trumpesque moment.  This MUST be fake news.  A nation that lets people die on the very steps of Parliament rather than reduce the billions spent on the defence budget cannot bring down a TOY PLANE?  It could not, apparently, be shot out of the skies because of the danger of where the bullets would end up.  A valid point from our friends at the Ministry of Health and Safety.  Were all the stranded passengers milling about on the runway,  refusing to move out of harm’s way perhaps?  Or are there no snipers available in the world that can hit a clearly visible object without spraying the surrounding countryside with lead?

Bring in a bloody tank then.  That wouldn’t need to take more than one shot for it to be game over.  Am I the only still living person who can recall that at one point during World War Two we managed to shoot down a very large number of big boy planes over the next county that were equipped with actual weapons and living pilots who were pretty determined to use them?  Such a shame that we no longer train pilots to perform at that level.  Let’s hope none of our enemies read the papers.

In a rare moment of compassion, it being Christmas, I am prepared to accept that we may not have been told all the facts.  It could be that the drone had a small but deadly nuclear device attached to it, or a bucket of anthrax.  These are details that would suggest caution but if it turns out to be the work of two stupid boys with an Airfix Kit I think questions should be asked.  Or better still let’s put the lads in charge of the nation’s defence and we can conquer the world, airport by airport, for less than a hundred quid.  I’ll take a small percentage of the money saved for having come up with another brilliant idea.  Yet again.

And now, it being 0615 am, I will open the first bottle of the day (Milk, people, milk) pop a pastry in the microwave and slump back onto my pillows to rally for the days to come.  This is no time to admit defeat.  Any day now the whistle will sound and we must leave the trenches of exhaustion for the front line of December 25th. Bayonets ready men!  Charge!   Merry Christmas, one and all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was seeking a little richly deserved peace and quiet yesterday in one of the less visited rooms at Strawberry Hill House (Have I mentioned the amazing exhibition there at the moment?  Tickets still available) when who should walk in but my dear and valued friend Anthony.  After all, how many men do you know that at a moments notice could do a Latin translation or provide the name of Norman Scott’s dog?  (Rinka, a Great Dane, in case you didn’t know). But was he focussed on the wealth of treasures around him?  No, he had tracked me down to complain about the absence of a blog this week.  The responsibility of inspiring such devotion is a little overwhelming, even for me.

My mind of late has been on higher things; namely my ceiling.  And walls.  The decorator has finally arrived and the house will go to the ball before Christmas.  Thank God for technology, not a phrase in daily usage I venture, because with a click on my iPad I was able to send pictures of the paint samples to my thirty most trusted advisors and decide on a colour without leaving the house.  FYI the way forward, so long Farrow and Ball’s ‘Elephant’s Breath’, is now either ‘Skylight’or ‘Cornforth White’.  I opted for the latter, largely on the basis that John Cornforth has connections with Strawberry Hill.  (Have I mentioned ….) and it goes with the carpet.

The Internet was also employed by my old schoolmate who was able to send me a snap of the perfect skirt for the Christmas season which she will hopefully despatch tomorrow. Note to self:  check for snowdrifts in Scotland.  Even I wouldn’t want her to risk life and limb just to get to the Post Office when, at a pinch, I could wear something else.  Who said that empathy course was a waste of time?

On a more serious note I see that The Sunday Times is doing a survey on Queen Bee syndrome.  Now I would never deny that men have their faults (See pages 2 – 95) but I would still rather work for a man than a woman who hates all other women.  Men are simple, straightforward creatures who can generally be persuaded/ordered to do what you want whereas a lot of women who’ve made it to the top seem to make it their mission in life to ensure that no other woman does.  Shame on you ladies.  Let your New Year resolution be to work on empowering and supporting your sisters.  Or brothers, I should add, in these gender fluid times.

Herein ends today’s sermon.  Now let me get back to admiring my walls.  Do I need to get out more?