Back at work after a fortnight's holiday, during which I read several books, cooled my heels, and collected some new strains of athlete's foot at the pool.
It's just downhill from here. The government should have send-off centres for people of my age, before we fall apart and burden the health system. Surely the taxpayer would come out ahead, even after paying for the Thai whore massage, the amuse bouches and the Brompton's Cocktail. It's a win-win arrangement.
Which reminds me. A couple of nights before Duneditin 2008, I was sharing an Edinburgh bedsit with the cellmate. Too lazy to run a bath in the bathroom along the corridor, I washed my tackle in the basin in the room. The cellmate said "I see you're having a horse bath". I laughed at her quaint expression. Presumably it had some obscure New Zealand origin. Maybe they used to drench their horses' pubes in a trough of tick poison or something.
I told her this week, how often I have used her expression in conversations since then. It was her turn to laugh. I had misheard her originally. The term is "whore's bath" not "horse bath". It makes sense.