It's that time of year again. When Jack Frost starts nipping at your arse and that scary bloke in the red suit breaks into your house and tries to seduce your wife. Yes, it's Krim......
There's something not quite right here. I can see the buds of Channel 4 HD death sprouting on that effing oak tree in the garden behind us. It must be . . er . . Autumn! No, it's the other one with leaves - Spring!
Sometimes I have these odd jumps. When months seem to have passed in an instant. I must be making incredible journeys across space and time, exploiting some strange warp thingy that thrabs my mind as a side effect. Or I'm in the early stages of dementia.
Now that we're agreed it's Spring, I've had a look in my wallet. It seems I'm a life member of a camera club. I looked up their website. They've a special four-weeks-and-a-bit-except-in-February-apart-from-leap-years coming up. Now I'm getting on I can't stand the cold. And I've never liked the heat. That's why it sounds made just for me: Mild Month.
A whole four-weeks-and-a-bit-except-in-February-apart-from-leap-years with tepid temperatures. Reason for any left-thinking person to celebrate. And when I celebrate I buy a book. Just like when I'm sad. Or happy. Equivocal or in a rage. Or inexplicably ecstatic. I'll tell the truth: I buy a lot of books. The mood I'm in is pretty irrelevant.
Buy my Mega Mild book.
Or my other Mild book.
A Meeting of Whiskey Titans - Before the first war, there was a minor genre in American, and surely Canadian, journalism: a wending description of a junket. I’ve mentioned a few of them...
6 hours ago