tartan bunker

Let’s forget Sir Fred for a moment, ok a lifetime. Let’s focus instead on Myners man and Harman woman. Why wasn’t Myners on the case, or at least getting a minion to check out young Fred’s pension contract? And is Harman intent on running Gulag UK? To paraphrase her words: (Fred’s) ‘contract might be enforceable in a court of law . . . but not in the court of public opinion . . .’ You remember public opinion, don’t you? That irksome beast governments prefer to ignore? The beast opposed to the invasion of Iraq. The beast which continues to believe that Dr Kelly was murdered. Which wants post offices to remain open. Which is appalled at the idea of a retrospective law. Yet now the beast is being courted. Or its body used in vain. Things must be desperate. 

Shirts. How, and why, did they evolve? More to the point, how best to iron the blighters, given that the material from which they’re often made behaves like a contortionist with arthritis. I was taught to iron first that long thin bit above the shoulders, below the collar – there’s always wee bits which pucker and crinkle like the flowers flown thousand o’miles to your local garage which wither and die the moment they scent a vase. Sleeves have the same mentality, and why are they bicycle-pumped into gross shapelessness. Mebbe it’s a case of a good ironing board, to stretch out the thing on a rack from the Spanish Inquisition, so mebbe I’ll have a rummage in the Professor’s old R&D cupboard at Dekaydence. You never know what you might find there.  

We’re in London during the week, in ma wee flat above the shop at Dekaydence hq. Catflaps back and front so MacMog comes and goes as he pleases: I ask no questions; MacMog tells me no lies. But this past few weeks, he’s been tearing back in as though all four horsemen of the Apocalypse and Lassie are after him. The reason? Squawking robins at the back, assuming he’s after their young; and likewise, at the front, dive-bombing blackbirds. How come they don’t they realise that MacMog is well passed fighting for a mcmorsel of fledgeling and prefers chilling out in the sunshine? I see a lot of unnecessary creature stress and wonder who’s implementing God’s plan? Now, if Dekaydence got control . . .