I rounded out my interesting day with a visit to my dear old mum, god bless her. Turns out she's won a million pounds (or maybe it was a million dollars), which is nice. Trouble is, that Tony Blair wants to marry her to get his hands on the loot. I told her she should tell him no, and we'll put the money in the bank for safekeeping.
I'm beginning to wonder if, like the man in Chris Priest's excellent novel, The Prestige,I haven't become two of me. Somehow, even as I wrote last night's blog, I was delivering to my mum an absolutely delicious cream eclair. And why the hell didn't I have one with me tonight? Incidentally, if you haven't yet read The Prestige, I urge you to do so as soon as humanly possible. You're in for a treat.
On the bus home, I peered over someone's shoulder to catch a glimpse of a headline in The Tmes. "I keep a serial killer's brain in my cellar," it read. Why on earth didn't I think of that? I've got a cellar. With a bit of rearranging of the paints and general junk, I'm sure I could find a flat spot for a serial killer's brain. Maybe it would give me a new hobby when I grow tired of painting and blogging.
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