This isn’t one of those sorries you see on the television when you know the person doesn’t really mean it; it’s a proper, grown up sorry. The sort of sorry you say when you’ve torn the electricity bill into little pieces, or chewed the arm off a Barbie doll. A real lie-on-your-back-with-your-legs-in-the-air type of sorry.
Here goes: I’m terribly sorry, my Dad Tom can’t write his blog today because he’s not feeling well.
The appointment sat in my diary like a pool of rancid milk in the bottom of the fridge. It had to be dealt with, but the thought made me feel sick.
I’d cancelled twice already, claiming a busy schedule. Now the insurers were insistent: my policy was up for renewal, and they needed me in London for a medical, presumably to check I wasn’t going to die on them.
“Bring a towel and loose clothes, and don’t eat for two hours beforehand,” the letter said.
That meant one thing: the dreaded treadmill. They fix electrodes to your chest, switch the machine to racing mode, and you run till you drop.
When I found out about it two months ago, I resolved to immediately get slim – which for me is quite ludicrous. A bit like putting a pint of oil in the car just before its annual service. You can’t disguise years of excess with a few bottles of Activia and a jog.
Just as they were about to leave the Garden of Eden, Eve found Adam rushing around in a blind panic.
“I’ve lost my figleaf,” he shouted, furiously scrabbling through a pile of half-eaten apples. “I can’t go out without it.”
With a heavy sigh, Eve pointed down: “Adam, you’re wearing it.”
It’s a man thing, apparently. We were born to lose stuff.
She’s certainly a big lass, with deep lines rippling round her voluptuous curves. Her two breasts are more Titian than Playboy.
“Is that a boobie?” asked Granny, squinting up at the prone giant silhouetted against the sunlight.
“That’s the face, Mum – look, there’s her forehead and her nose.”
Izzy giggled: “Daddy’s got boobies”.
“Nonsense,” I snorted.
“You really must go on a diet, dear”, said my Mum.
I’m really sorry I missed my post last week. Every Sunday I’ve tried to write something vaguely amusing to lighten things up, but last week I simply didn’t have the time. Not one free minute in the entire day. Or in any of the following five days either.
Last week I was out of this world, spirited into a parallel universe. Emails lay unanswered, post unopened, no time to watch the news or go down the pub: I’ve been living in the world of Three.
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