Life is, and shall remain long after we've exhausted this tremendous bowl of Weetabix, a grand and wondrous thing. Of course, without the cereal it may be a bit less exciting, but I imagine we'll squeak by, nonetheless. And by squeak, yes, I mean probably in that potentially embarassing squealish-type manner.
And why, oh why do we feel obligated to remark on this sort of state? The state in which life is grand, wondrous, perhaps smashing?
Could it be a prestigious award from a major publication/association/organisation?
Could it be we've just, you know, maybe, oh, I don't know, stepped out of the shower, a shower following, you know, certain activities, a kind of... post-pleasure-type shower in a room somewhere warm, sultry, even, the walls singing with pleasure, but not in any sort of annoying and unbearable pitch so that you'd be tempted to tell them to hush up, with maybe, back on the bed sitting in between all these singing walls, in a very suggestive pose, albeit suggesting what's just gone on, maybe hinting at more, even so soon afterwards as, well, as it goes, someone, and a large bottle of champagne or the like?
Could it be we've finally paid off the loans against the London office and the city of London and various agencies therein are seeing fit to allow us to walk the streets of that city once again without outrightly fearing for our lives and not feeling all too incredibly safe even being in that country for a period of more than five, ten minutes at the outset?
Could it be we've finally had our repeated phone calls returned by that unnamed model we happened to be caught on the front page of the Daily Star with a week or so ago, sunbathing in Ennis, she whom had been so mortified that she had to be promised tighter security and a mask the next time she would see us?
How about the way dear old Ireland's cleaning up in the World Cup matches for once? Err...
The new BBC channel?
Receiving phone calls from complete strangers (ok, so maybe not quite complete, but pretty damn strange. ok, or people you know fairly well, but were kind of hoping that you, one day, would be able to call them a stranger, or at least former-acquaintance) and talking for a good ten minutes under the impression (on their end) that you're someone else (though talking may be a bit generous, as seven of the ten minutes are generally awkward silences)?
The, ehm... uhh... new... or, rather, regular... appearance of... spectacular... umm...
No, it's none of those.
Or, no, wait, I think it was the bit about the London office.
disclaimer:
Note, we're out of the office this week, in London. So this issue isn't really here, and you aren't really reading it.
Oh, and stop that, that's a disgusting habit.
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. tuppence a read, guv.