A week into the new decade and I’ve still got that leftover feeling – a freezer full of foil-wrapped scraps, only the unfavourite ones left in the sweetie tin and too much month at the end of my money.
In the olden days when I was barely into double figures and essays were called ‘compositions’, a popular topic to exercise children’s imagination was, ‘What might life be like in 2020?’ or other arbitrary future date.
And what are you doing today dear female reader that you’ve the leisure to read this article? Obviously you’re fully prepared down to the last Brussels sprout for the Big Event tomorrow and feeling pretty smug about it.
The cursed thing declares an incoming call with a raucous blarge of orchestral music that goes on and on while I dredge fruitlessly through the debris in the bottom of my handbag looking for the offending device, conscious of disapproving glances from people around me.