Pancake Day, attic-based drama, and ‘Toff’: Things of the week
If this week was a winter olympics event...
...it would be... um...
...obviously I haven’t watched any of it. While relieved that the Opening Ceremony did not, in fact, turn out to be a Battlestar Galactica pilot episode-style North Korean trap, I remain dubious as to whether ‘falling down a frosty tube’ actually qualifies as a competitive sport.
Yeti hurling, on the other hand? Now THAT I’d watch.
Public service announcement of the week
"pancakes are BLOODY terrible."
Carb blobs. Not worth the calories. Save your flour for something edible and/or useful: eg. triple chocolate chip cookies, playdough.
Idiot of the week
Aspiring writers! Put those pens, inverted pyramids, and whatever else they lie to you about journalism school down.
Here's how you actually land a weekly column in the Sunday Times’ Style Magazine: contrive yourself a short stint on reality TV, the base level of obliviousness required to find anti-abortionist Jacob Rees-Mogg “sexy”, and a ‘tone of voice’ akin to the checkout queue at Waitrose High Street Kensington.
Aspiring writers! Meet Georgia 'Toff' Toffolo. She's the worst.
Sample sentence: “I’ve advertised for my PA on a website called Radio H-P. It’s like a posh Gumtree, full of Sloanes selling Labrador puppies and Tuscan villas, but it’s members only and you need to be invited to join it.”
Urgh. Another: “Let’s talk baby Stormi. Stormi! Literally none of my friends at school were called that. I’ve watched Kylie Jenner’s video 462 times. Obsessed.”
URGH. “I adore the royals, but I’m not convinced by Prince William’s shaved head. Why didn’t he get hair plugs like Wayne Rooney?”
KILL ME NOW.
Mystery of the week
You jolt awake; heart racing.
The room is dark, save the anxiety-yellow alarm clock face. 11.02pm. Jesus.
The room is silent, save your gently snoring boyfriend. JESUS.
Did he wake you up? Probably. You give him a not-so-gentle shove. Oh how he’ll come to regret this treachery.
But wait. From the corner of the room, closest to the bathroom: a scratching. A scrabbling. Has the neighbour’s cat got stuck in the extractor fan again?
No. The noise is getting louder. You sit up, sweating.
IT’S COMING FROM THE ATTIC.
To feign sleep in the hope that your boyfriend will shortly snore himself awake and deal with it for you, turn to page 2.
To sneak into the next room and start researching rat poison, turn to page 4.
To lie awake for the next 12 hours, obsessing about bubonic plague and whether or not you mouseproofed the Christmas potpourri, turn to page 5.
Weather forecast of the week
And now – over to my Achy Right Knee for the weather. How’s it looking, guy?
Lovely stuff. That’s it from us!