Two months without central heating and still no gangrene…

Signs that show you’re arrived:

  • Gorgeous women stop you in the street and ask if you wouldn’t mind signing their underwear.
  • Burly Italian waiters wave you past a queue of irate customers, turf a couple of supermodels out of their seats, present you with a bottle of their finest plonk, (on the house naturally), and then hang off your every word, (along with the gathering crowd), as you regale them with hilarious anecdotes about your various famous friends.
  • Complete strangers come up to you at the bar and adorn you with cigars and brandy before kissing you on each cheek and sobbing at just how great you are.
  • You find your book in Oxfam.

Only one of the above has happened to me this week, (although another nearly did), and the closest I came to achieving social euphoria occurred when an after-work gathering was momentarily reduced to silence by a colleague yelling, ‘I’m so hungry I could eat the arse out of a low flying duck.’

Inspirational writing has been somewhat curtailed in recent weeks due to my hands no longer working. This in turn is as a result of spending the winter months huddled around a portable heater. Whilst I would love to cry Dickens-style poverty, my predicament is in fact caused by a series of rogue heating specialists dis-improving my ancient combi-boiler (‘Oops…now that’s broken’ etc).

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