Tuesday, November 23, 2004

I see a little boy crossing a dual carriageway almost every morning. He somehow manages to get to the other side of the road then waves to his mother, who lurks about in a house somewhere she can't be seen by motorists like me, before he sets off on the rest of his journey. One day, his mother won't be there watching, and I reckon it'll coincide with the little guy going splat under a lorry. Let that be a pointless road safety lesson for you all. On the same road this morning I saw a gent repeating the same karate move over and over, which appeared to be unnerving the woman stood in front of him at a bus stop. Went into Oxfam after meeting mother and sister for lunch (two Stellas and a chicken balti, mmmmmm) and managed to find a copy of John Fante's The Road To Los Angeles, which I promptly bought for £2.49. Heck, so happy was I at the find that I even threw the penny change into the Oxfam tub on the counter. I was served by a man with very fat fingers. I thought retail outlets had banned that kind of thing, but maybe there's an exception for charities.

The Busted tickets arrived by special delivery. Special? Surely shome mishtake. Perversely, am quite looking forward to Sunday - think this is mainly due to the opportunity presented to embarrass my Charlie-fixated (as in Charlie from Busted, not the white powdery stuff) daughter by waving in ridiculous, melodramatic fashion to her from my F13:block 102 seat in the Sheffield Arena. She'll probably be too busy screaming to notice me.

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