I have to share something very important with you. Trust me, you never know when you might need this one. Here are my top five thoughts to think about if you just happen to be getting wheeled backwards into an operating theatre and want something to occupy or distract your attention.
1. Why are white chocolate chip cookies invariably more soggy in the middle than regular chocolate chip cookies? 2. Who is DonaldTrump’s hairstylist? 3. Pink jacket and orange shirt combo, fashion triumph or potential iaughing stock? 4. Why do Japanese fisherman find rare and beautiful sea creatures then have an overwhelming compulsion to bludgeon them to death? 5. Is it unethical to be sexually attracted to your anaesthetist? Just to explain number five in a bit more detail. Mine was called Pavel. He comes from Poland. He seemed a really bright and interesting guy. He did have great hands. In fact if any of you ever need an injection in your eyeball I’d say he is your go to guy.
Christmas was naturally a complete blur. Guido and I take a diplomatic approach to sharing time between our parents each year. Last year we went to my parents for Christmas. Dining there is like eating in a monastic refectory. The pickings are slim. I remember looking down at the pile of bones on my plate and thinking a dingo must have already come for supper. So, fortunately we went to Rosa and Juan’s this year. They’ve never heard of the expression less is more.
When we arrived in their kitchen on Christmas morning I felt just like Mr Magoo did. I could almost make out the profile of their two little bodies and a frighteningly large dark matter on the work top.
“Ez the turkee,” said Juan. That isn’t a typo it’s the way he talks. The turkey was the size of a Fiat 500. “Ez 18 lbs,” said Juan. I let my fingers fumble their way round the minute dimensions of Rosa and Juan’s oven door. It felt like the opening on a letter box.
“It’ll never fit,” I said.
“Eet weel feet,” said Rosa. That isn’t a typo either it’s the way she talks. “Eef dee Romans can build the Colliseum then we can roast theez turkee.”
“Fine,” I said, “then all we’ll need are 5000 pagan slaves to help us out and it’ll be cooked before the Queen’s speech.”
Six hours later I was feeling more stuffed than that poor bird. Rosa poured coffee and got out the fortune cookies. I cracked mine in half and handed the little strip of paper inside it to Guido to read out.
“You Will Marry A Very Rich Man,” he said frowning. That was probably being optimistic as I know Guido’s bank balance hovers around zero.
Back home in bed I lay there with chronic indigestion.
“Does it bother you that I’m not rich?” he asked. I fleetingly visualised myself having hot sex in a sunken marble bath with gold taps and an unidentifiable Russian oligarch.
“Of course not,” I said, “money can’t buy you love.”
But listen, any millionaires out there who can bake a decent souffle, and are remotely interested in a guy with temporarily having vision in only one eye, be aware, you could jump directly to second in line in my marital queue.