98 YEARS OLD AND STILL HAVING A BUSY WEEK...
WHAT a week this has been! It began, as so many working weeks do, on Monday morning when I heard that Poundland had agreed, subject to regulatory approval, to buy 99p Stores for £ 55million. Is this not typical of the unthinking, money- wasting strategy of our business leaders these days? I am sure if I had been in charge, I could have beaten down the 99p people to a price of no more than £ 54,999,999.99p.
The next thing to astonished me was an email telling of the joy of flossing and informing me that flossing “will remove plague ( sic) in between teeth”. If only they had known this in the Middle Ages when Bubonic Plague and Black Death killed a third of the population of Europe. I can just see the scene in a medieval dentist’s surgery:
“Spot of Black Death between your teeth, Sir? And I must say your gums are looking a spot bubonic. But don’t worry, regular flossing will soon clear it up. Here’s a copy of Daniel Defoe’s Journal of the Flossing Month, formerly issued as A Journal of the Plague Year. Just follow its instructions and you’ll be fine in no time.”
The real highlight of the week for me, however, was the premiere of the Fifty Shades of Grey film. I did not hop over to Berlin for this for two good reasons: first, I was otherwise engaged flossing away the plague from between my teeth, and second, I had absolutely no desire to see the film.
The reason it was a highlight, however, was because I see the release of the film as a chance to promote a new screen version of my own work ‘ Fifty Shades of Grey Socks’. Inspired by my regular morning inability to find two grey socks that match, I have, of course, somewhat sexed up the story to appeal to the salacious tastes of modern film- goers. An extract follows:
The clock chimed 11, but it was unclear whether it was that sound or the knock on his bedroom door that roused Christian Beachcomber from his slumbers.
Knowing, from past experience, that there was little he could do about the clock, save whipping it or hacking it to pieces with an axe, Beachcomber turned his attention to the door and in a voice that was simultaneously gentle and commanding, bellowed “Come in!”
Anorexia, scullery maid and mistress of the bedchamber, entered the room carrying a tray of breakfast delights. Her face displayed the mixed feelings of excitement and trepidation that she always felt when entering this inner sanctum of Beachcomber Towers.
She handed Beachcomber a cup of tea made from the finest Broken Orange Pekoe leaves from Ceylon and a plate of scrambled egg with smoked salmon. He wolfed it down sensuously then slithered provocatively out of bed.
“My socks!” he shrieked. “Where are my grey socks?”
“In the washing machine, I expect,” Anorexia said. “Miss Bulimia took them for cleaning last night. Please don’t punish me.”
“I’ll wear the black ones,” said Beachcomber, smiling. “Now where’s the floss? I feel a bit of plague coming on.” How exciting life at Beachcomber Towers is, mused Anorexia.