My brother dropped a crayfish over last Thursday. Dead, I presume.
Dazed and Confused
Most rational thinkers would agree a Renaissance Man is a man to be envied. Cultured, debonair and successful in many different areas, the Renaissance Man will always be invited to prestigious dinner parties, and clapped on the back at significant art openings.
Scientists attempting to explain the feat of the Rosetta spaceship whanging a robot thingee down on the comet 67P/Churyumov-Gerasimenko, said it was like shooting a bullet at a speeding bullet while blindfolded and riding a horse.
Coffee bars. Were they so long ago?
Some days, just nothing happens.
The 16th century poet John Donne, who wrote of death like no other, once said Coronation Street is at its best when Ken Barlow is on the pull.
If there is one truism that is truer than the truest of all that is true, it is if you are looking for something, you will find something else.
We all peak at different ages. And the skills we have in adulthood are mastered in many weird and wonderful ways.
A complete stranger, male, small, assailed me in Diesoline Cafe last week, whanging the preposterous theory down on the table that my column-ending predictions and promises are bunkum, that they would never, or could never, happen.
In the fetid rotting swamp that is modern retail, many established shops have chosen diversity to survive.
We have been told by our elders for years of the power and beauty of storytelling. Oral history. Forget Google, go to the people who were there and make them talk.
During a routine nightly four-hour session on YouTube last week, I tumbled into an engaging little doco called Humans Need Not Apply.
Despite predicting just about everything that has ever happened, the prophet Nostradamus has come in for a power of criticism over the years.
Two close personal friends and I flung ourselves into a ferocious shouting fuddle last week on the topic of intelligence.
I don't think there is any doubt at all among rational thinkers that the most testing time in life comes when you are waiting for a prescription to be filled in a pharmacy.
In a rare moment of idiocy admission, I wrote here a couple of years ago of owning a part of a racehorse, Azaross, a horse with ever-so-tiny connections to genealogical greatness in France.
There comes a time, after the chronological accident of high school, which threw you together with unlikely humans, that you gather together real friends, who share common interests and exist on an approximately similar intellectual level.