MeMe Too

According to Lane, this meme is meant to depict the fourth photograph from my fourth folder. (What is it a meme? Is it pronounced as the French for the same, i.e. même; or is it me-me as in who wants another drink?)

I am completely stumped by this meme. What sort of tidy-minded, anally-fixated individual imagines that the rest of humanity neatly stores their lives in alphabetical order, cross-referenced chronologically, in a filing cabinet? (If you are that tidy-minded, anally-fixated individual I, of course, do not employ these terms in any manner that may be interpreted pejoratively.)

That said, here is a photograph carefully selected at random.


I love this photograph of lil'ol moi. It was taken when my family were either in Egypt or Libya circa 1948/9. I believe I am wearing a cardie styled by an embryonic Vivian Westwood and knitted by my mother during one of the frequent blackouts we experienced. I particularly admire the fact that for such a young, pre-pubescent child I already need a cup-D bra. Even more admirable for the fact that I was and, indeed, still am a male.

Most of all I love that innocent, wide-eyed, ever hopeful smile.

Compare it to this photograph of Rebecca (ever so slightly faded - it being an R-type print for those who know about film) taken when she was at the same age when we were on holiday in Sri Lanka.


Who's Daddy's darling then? (Yes, yes, Emily - YOU are - but you weren't born then.) What I mean is, don't you think Rebecca and I look very similar? (Poor girl.)

I keep my portrait near my desk to inspire me to keep my promises to myself. Can you imagine how heart-breaking it would be if I let him down and he suddenly burst into tears. (It would also be very spooky. Picture the queues of venerable old dears dressed in black, who would soon assemble outside my front door, with lighted candles, singing hymns and holding written petitions for the Baby David to cure their arthritis.)

Yak! Yak! Yak!

I haven't talked about the progress of the book recently.

I haven't talked about the no smoking campaign recently.

I haven't talked about the drinking ban recently.

So much to talk about.

A Winter's Tale

Life has been full of incidents since I last blogged. There was:

The Incident of the Cussed Computer and Recalcitrant Router

The Incident of the Railway Ticket, Backpack and Train Journey to Deepest, Darkest Bethnal Green.

The Incident of the Delicious Roast Duck followed by the Incident of the Delectable Rack of Lamb

The Incident of the Excellent Bottle of Wine followed by the Incident of Another Excellent Bottle of Wine

The Incident of Mary Poppins and the Sofa.

The Incident of the Expedition in Arctic Conditions to the City Farm for the Pony Ride.


The Incident of Amy's Infamous Insult Aided and Abetted by Her Wicked Aunt Rebecca.

The Incident of the Return to Brighton and the Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth at the Thought of Work.

The Incident of the Reconstituted Computer and Resurrected Router after Days of Oaths and Fist-Shaking

(Apropos Amy's Insult: Having delivered it, she rushed upstairs crying gleefully to her mother, "Mummy, Mummy I just called your father a poohead". Your father, note, not my granddad.)