The dead do not care what we think of them; they do not care if anyone walks on their graves; they most certainly do not care if they win some award for the stuff they’ve done.
One day – just one day – I would like a bunch of pharmacists get together to write a full explanation of what it is that they do behind that counter.
I have always feared social situations, and I have always taken any action I could to avoid new situations.
The clogs act like a time machine, unifying the strands of the holidays. Everyone ends up in them or on them at some point: it’s ubiquitous.
What’s your poison? A glass of red; a snifter of port; a cheeky weekend line? A pint, a flute or a shot? Do you party every day, or are you a weekend flier? Your answers say a lot about you, you know?