The oily spring rolls have been assimilated somehow, leaving behind only a faint sense of contamination. What a miracle of waste-processing is the human body.
Today I went for lunch with a friend at Hugo's country restaurant. Behind us were four elderly gents on whose conversation I was eavesdropping. The one sitting closest to me seemed a bit less decrepit and rheumy-eyed than his friends, and was declaring in a plummy English voice that his new year's resolution was to find himself a bride. There were only so many games of golf and lunches that could occupy him it seemed, and he was in search of more diverting company.
I was sorely tempted to turn around and give him my number. I mean, how many more years could he possibly live before popping his clogs and leaving his massive house and wine cellar to me?
Alas, I bottled out. Ergo, years of thankless toil remain stretched out ahead of me.
No comments:
Post a Comment