That's it, I've figured it out. They say that today is the most miserable day of the year. OK, it's the middle of winter and you've got another bloody year to look forward to, but wait.
Over breakfast, your social secretary reminds you that you've got an invitation to a bloody Burns Night. That's the real reason it's the most miserable day of the year.
'Oh no, I'd forgotten,' I say. 'Ring 'em up and say that my chilblains are playing up.'
'But you haven't got chilblains,' she explains, unhelpfully.
'Look, you figure something out,' as the thought of an evening of unintelligible 'poetry', false bonhomie, laced with bagpipes, haggis and whiskey beckons.
'I'm not going. What about a headache? You're always always using a headache as an excuse!' I say.
2 comments:
But if you did attend, would you wear a kilt?
I've never looked good in ladies' clothes!
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