Successfully transferring the precious wine from bottle to glass without spilling a drop.
Getting a teaspoonful of coffee granules from the jar into the mug without dropping any.
Not to mention shifting the cream liquer into the coffee and not having to wipe over the surface top afterwards.
And then there’s the whole thing of avoiding the concrete pillars in the basement area of my apartment complex when offloading refuse bags and the very occasional glass bottle or two. Or three.
And while I’m on a roll it will be no surprise to My Good Self if someday I find myself incarcerated for the mass murder of city centre cyclists.
A shower of f***ing bastards.
For want of a better expression.
And so I become increasingly aware, day by day, that the lights are slowly going out and I am left with a choice.
To laugh or to cry.
Tweedle dum, tweedle dee, what’s it going to be?
Without doubt there is a place for tears in life.
That time when The Boys From Anfield let it slip in the last minute against Arsenal.
I still haven’t recovered.
But when it comes to the old spherical objects, I do feel that laughter is the better way to go.
Not nearly as many handkerchiefs to wash.
Blind light 
Leave a comment