This gem from an email I sent this morning:
I spose we are all ageing, aren't we, hauling our baggage where 'ere we go. If only there could be such a thing as an emotional porter, you know, someone you could acknowledge occasionally and tip scantily, and there they are, shouldering your battered-leather burdens for you, carrying them for you to unpack or no at your leisure. I'd like one of those big old trunks that stand on their end and open like a book, with little compartments for things like lost car-keys or mobile phones, larger ones for grievances and prejudices, and then hanging space for those long-held, worn-in and comfortable grudges we all carry. And a nice smiling foreign fellow bent double under its weight, but simply happy to have the work, Sahib. Terribly colonial, isn't it? But then we could concentrate on the delights of life, like gin and pétanque and The OC and tantrums and love affairs and never have to worry about a thing. Because that's all done by my man here.
Yep, back at work.
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