Read All About… Well What Exactly?

Well. This was a fairly quiet day, all things considered; there was the usual ritual spreading of large sheets of newspaper over the floor while croissant crumbs and blobs of jam rained from above. What is it with Sunday newspapers? My Daddy was saying that first of all they are so big you need a forklift truck to get them home and this is weird ‘cos in theory there should be less news at the weekend, ’cos lots of people are not at work and so on. Anyway, by the time you get them home, a load of stuff falls out on your shoes, a huge flood of junk mail with adverts for things you would never want to buy, cut-price horrible sofa re-upholstering and expensive electric blinds for your conservatory and cases of cheap Rumanian wine from some dubious Yorkshire retailer. It’s like these companies have been lying in wait all week until you are dozy and relaxed enough on a Sunday morning and then they pounce out of your supplement and you are caught off-guard so you go . “Ooh look love, polyester cotton khaki drawstring trousers in mustard. Where’s my Visa Card” . And the other stuff in the magazines is pictures of clothes for women shaped like a mop, reviews of records you have never heard of, recipes for wild something-or-other’ risotto from people who only forage for organic food in season in a particular field in Norway or have gardens big enough to feed a small town and articles about detox, depression and divorce. Still. I guess it keeps the parents quiet while I get up to something more fun like sticking bits of pain-au-chocolat down the back of the sofa, doing an experiment involving some stray cat-food, some water and my Mr Men Mr Tickle or smearing marmalade on Daddy’s original pressing of Rubber Soul. Ha. Simple pleasures.