mostly david ephgrave

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. A ll in a day's work for our Rog; one of the only men I know of to be born at a fully-formed fifty.

When I pressed the bell on the bus today, only the last four letters of the 'STOPPING' sign lit up to spell 'PING', which was a small victory for happy accidents. It was beautiful in its appropriateness; so much so, I was tempted to point it out to the other passengers, except that would mean breaking the official bus vow of silence, and you should never do that. Instead, I laughed to myself and made a note in my ideas pad so I didn't forget it; a pad that's fast resembling a very odd shopping list. It's always pleasing when these little things happen; it's like someone 'Up There' is cracking a joke. It's like the time I watched three people press the buzzer bathroom at exactly at the moment and I thought we might get thrust into another dimension; well, if The Doctor can travel through time in a converted police box then anything's possible; I've just remembered Doctor Who is fiction.