Juggling

Dropping Things

There are certain characteristic noises that can be heard in my rented flat.

One is a manic squeaking and hammering of pipes whenever one uses the toilet – a phenomenon that started for no identifiable reason last year. It was almost as if the toilet decided that it was underappreciated, and resolved to thenceforth announce whenever it is in use to all the other residents in the block.

Another noise is the summon to battle when an arachnid intruder is encountered, an event that occurs with alarming regularity. And a third noise is a howl of despair upon opening the cupboard where the biscuits are kept, when one discovers that no biscuits are there to be found.

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fishnchips

A Lack of Enthusiasm for Teleportation

Recently I went with some friends to a lovely country pub, to eat fish and chips on a Friday night, while the beautiful British summer howled against the window panes and soaked up the legs of my trousers.

They were some of the best fish and chips I’ve had. The fish was a giant slab of cod that clearly came from the body-building champion of the cod world. It was delightfully battered and tasty, and the chips were huge and chunky, salted and vinegared – the kind of chips seagulls have wet-dreams about, not those pathetic skinny things people (yes, Americans, I’m talking to you) call fries.

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