Saturday Night Fever
It’s the BBC staff party in Inverness tonight and I’m not there. Instead I’ve been shuffling about the house looking like something Burke and Hare would have delivered to the back door of a medical lab.
In other words, I have a bit of a cold.
I’m not getting much sympathy either. Truth is I’m thinking of hiring a crack team of lawyers to pore over the small print in my marriage certificate. I remember some verbal agreement about “sickness and in health” but I’m hoping there’s an actual clause which specifies the amount of pampering one should expect. Offers of hot water bottles and re-puffed pillows ought to be the bare minimum.
But I feel I’m failing in my duties by not being at the party. I’m supposed to be available for that point in the evening when junior members of staff decide to jab a finger in my chest and tell me a “few home truths”. That’s always fun.
I like to take notes.
