There's nothing like an inability to breathe when horizontal that brings out the prolific writer in one. 1 am, and I'm knackered, but sleep is not in my kismat this night (goddess of all drama queens however, is my kismat, period). The body wracking TB cough (good enough to audition for long suffering mother of twins boys snatched at birth, collapsing in the arms of a youngish lout who turns out to be lost son no.1 © Bollywood) that insisted on centre stage presence on my conference call, has given way to stultifying morass of achy snot lodged between my cranium and thorax. I did intend to write something edifying for this post, but my mind has obviously meandered irretrievably. So let me tell you instead that the investment banker indulges in petty theft. Of white tea (his favourite)
from the BA lounge at T5. Most unbecoming. In his own words, grand theft... now that is acceptable, but petty theft is grossly demeaning. Such a fundamental truth - if you're going to go down, go down in style. Which reminds me, I need to procure a tea ball for the man. Stultifying morass is now doing it's damdest to make Guy's sneezes sound like an apologetic old lady asking to change her cucumber sandwiches. God, that hurt! Reminds me of a Calvin & Hobbes where Calvin's threat of a megaton, life altering sneeze is held back, only to result in his head imploding. Needless to say, his mother is not impressed. Strange woman. Imploding heads always fascinate me. That's what Spock says, with dependable regularity. Fascinating. He is. Utterly. Should I add part Vulcan to my Unicorn classified?
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