Being Me

'You said you wanted some mackerel paté,' Spouse said yesterday, while I was typing in our online order from Tesco. 'Ooh, thanks for the reminder.' I've been hooked on mackerel paté since our August fortnight in Whitby, a seaside town on the North Yorkshire coast. I ate so much mackerel paté in that fortnight that I began to smell the same as Whitby harbour in high summer. Even splashing on Coco Chanel perfume didn't mask it, and seagulls began to circle above my head when we went out for walks. I swear my eyes began to move to the sides of my head. I typed in 'mackerel paté'. Two options came up. 1. Mackerel paté for humans, called 'Smoked mackerel paté'. But it was 'currently unavailable'. At least there was another option, but this was ..... 2. Mackerel paté for cats, called 'Gourmet Gold Paté with Ocean Fish'. There was plenty of this available. In fact, it was on offer.  I have the following questi...

I mean, do I look particularly suspicious? Judging by recent events which I'll tell you about, I must do. Here's a picture of me, to remind you. Oh, sorry. Wrong picture. Here I am. See? Butter wouldn't melt! A friend says she always judges people on the basis of 'Would I let them look after my cat?' It's surprisingly reliable. Try it. You'd let me look after yours, wouldn't you? I know for sure that the headteacher of my grandson's primary school wouldn't. Even though I've waited in the school playground once a week for two years now, he didn't recognise me last Thursday when I arrived to pick up Elijah from his after-school club. I was under suspicion. I'll say here that this headteacher is a lovely man and I can't blame him for making sure I was the real deal if he didn't recognise me. I'd much rather know that he checked people out than let any Tom, Dick or Hattie in to collect children. ...