When I went to university, they paid ME to be there. Three times a year I received a cheque, which was promptly spent on wild living.
Most rational thinkers have little time for science. Most of my friends are rational thinkers.
Mistakes, or as behavioural psychologists are wont to call them, cockups, are just mistakes. Or cockups. Nothing more.
Most rational thinkers would agree that the mark of a man is his ability to repeatedly purchase useless objects.
A friend of mine, let's just call her a Friend Of Mine (FOM) has been told by her partner he would like to go over to Australia and make some serious money in the gold mines, you know, knock the mortgage for six and all that.
It was about 15 years ago. I was at the Bats' house, well, two of the Bats, Paul and Kaye, in Christchurch. A guy walked into the kitchen.
Helen was back in the Dunedin Public Art Gallery Choir this Christmas.
The doctor said he diagnosed me from the door of my bedroom. Diabetes.
Christmas Day was two days ago. I wrote this before Christmas Day. But because I am a man and technically slightly old, I knew days before Christmas what I was getting, so I can discuss that now, without fear of telling a single fib.
Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson has offended many people over the years with his irreverent comments.
Most rational thinkers would agree the main reason real estate is currently dormant is because open homes insist on punters taking their shoes off at the door.
In a CV so small even footprints left by an ant dripping in ink would seem large, one honour just about turned my whole empty page around - the editorship of the student newspaper Critic.
My dentist is playing international hockey again. He turned 63 last week and is just back from Singapore with the New Zealand Over-60s. So it isn't just Shayne Warne (42) and Martin Crowe (49) who are keen to get back into the top stuff at a ridiculously advancing age. Old men in sport is the new food television.
A friend, Emily, dropped around to return The Royals by scandalmongress Kitty Kelley.
Coronation Street is back on top of its game. For how long, nobody knows, but last Thursday's episode was a ripper.
Herman Brix. Hah! I will swear on my dog's grave you have never heard of this man. For the sheer purpose of this column and also, for unforgivable bravado, I will say I have known of him all my life and am appalled at the way he has been treated by television and movie historians.
While the nation gorged itself on rugby last weekend, my attentions were elsewhere - two of the most significant anniversaries in my life fell on the same Labour Weekend.
There aren't many forbidden topics for a weekly column, except writing about your children. Or grandchildren.
The books keep arriving, possibly because I keep ordering them. And the recent Regent Theatre sale added another pile to be put somewhere. Yet another bookcase then. Fortunately back in July, my sharp commercial eye had found just the thing.
Christchurch was fine. It was my first visit there since the earthquakes and I freely admit I was frightened.