This little piggy…

I was trying to impress my wife the other day by telling her about adjectives related to animals. There’s ovine, for sheep, and bovine, for cattle, and ursine, for bears, and avian, for birds, and equine, for horses. And, of course, porcine, for pigs.

“Porcine?” my wife asked, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous!”
Continue reading “This little piggy…”

Seeking the wrong goal

“I don’t know, it feels like my life is devoid of purpose.”

“Isn’t there anything you could do that would make a difference to the world?”

“Well… I could take up making nuclear bombs like my brother.”

“I don’t want to live in the middle of nowhere in Sweden!”

“Don’t worry, we could live in the middle of nowhere in Iran!”


“What, you don’t like Iran? North Korea?”


I meant to run a race today, but like a fool I stayed up until 2 this morning watching The Shield, a violent US cop series. That removed any chance of getting up in time for a 6:30 start, which meant I stayed in bed until almost 11 this morning, only rising in order to stagger outside for brunch.

On the negative side, I failed to take part in a race I’d paid for, but on the positive side I did watch many hours of everyone’s favourite angry bald man, Michael Chiklis, running around being angry. And bald.

(Jason Statham is also famous for running around being angry, but has receding hair, which means he’s balding, and not bald.)

Brunch was egg yolks on toast, infused with truffle oil, which smells slightly wrong, even though it tastes good. However, today it felt a little off: seasoned with the bitterness of indolence, I suspect.
Continue reading “Recovery”


After work, we went for a quiet drink: it had been a long week with much to do, and it was good to ease gently into the weekend.

Four bucket-sized glasses of Hoegaarden later, things were going a bit south. If we’d stopped then, instead of starting in on the wine, things might have been ok.

If we’d stopped then, instead of going back onto beer, we might have limited the damage.

If we hadn’t played an ill-advised drinking game called “Buzz Cock” then we might have retained some semblence of decency.

If we hadn’t decided to finish off with two hours of drinking cheap whisky and dancing like morons in an empty club in Clarke Quay, I’d have had some hope of being rested for the weekend.

Conscious that I’d turn into a pumpkin if I stayed out too long, I quit before midnight and began the short walk home.

After ten minutes I realised I’d walked in exactly the wrong direction, and somehow flagged a taxi down to take me back to Chinatown.

Please, no more booze.