|A glimpse of my linen cupboard. Odd how some colours prevail.|
With age and weariness, standards lower. I could feel the approaching rain in the stiffness of my bones the other day, and I sighed as I tucked in a flat sheet.
Already it is too late for you to type the words "moral decline" into the comment box: an order has been placed and a fleet of trucks has left a Fitted Sheet Emporium to drive day and night along the tulip-edged motorways of the continent toward the Irish ferry in Calais, cross the sea and rush westward to my house, Joe Le Taxi blaring from their radios.
They should be here by mid-week. We can still be friends?