The old man has started to rant about leaving his closest family, about spending more time with his children. The children within earshot roll their eyes: they remember how he left them before.
All certainty is a lie at this point. Only shouting loudly in the face of a loved one is acceptable now. It’s like deciding what to have for dinner at tea time, with a child shouting.
I am starting to get the distinct impression that I don’t enjoy comedy any more. And I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.
National character cannot simply be a function of climatic conditions, but the two are linked. What would the Canadian character be without all that ice to muck about on?
The Independent Group have been met with a mixture of celebration and contempt: a perfect name for a British theme pub if ever there was one.
Well that’s a stupid title. It’s basically gibberish in Latin. I recognise some of it, but it’s just a jumble of bits of stuff.
The anger of the extremes – the most certain in the least tenable of views – are the ones who have put us in this position. I am sick of them.