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Floor Your Eyes Only.

While the vast majority of world events are pretty grim at the moment, the other day I did step on a floorboard that sounded like Roger Moore.

In these days of doom-scrolling, you need to take your light relief where you can get it. And if that's from an ill-fitting plank of wood creaking in the style of a dead, tinted-spec-wearing Bond star then so be it - though I can't help but wonder which of the two would be more mahogany-glazed (not to mention wooden).

If you're wondering which 'Saint trait' the squeaky floorboard was emulating, I'd best describe it as the noise he made if you'd reached a point of mutual understanding. That, or if a woman emerged unexpectedly from the depths of his bubble-filled bathtub with her modesty barely protected by some well-positioned suds. All in a day's work for our Rog; one of the only men I know of to be born at a fully-formed fifty.

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