Here’s a turn up . . . My wife says she still loves me. This may not seem such a remarkable revelation for most married couples (on the other hand, maybe it is) but we’re not exactly a married couple. We have been married individuals for the past 18 months, more or less, when she told me she didn’t love me. I’ve learned a lot since then. I’ve learned to cook things other than fried eggs. I have learned that there are better things in life (and on TV) than The Bill. I have stopped looking over my shoulder before I fart (when I’m at home, anyway). Indeed, I have…

I’VE just watched a bloke open the lavatory door with a Biro. And in case you think I have seedy habits I stress that it was a public lavatory, catering for several dozen men, and he preceded me out, having just washed his hands, as I had done. A Biro. He held it delicately between finger and thumb and hooked it in the handle and pulled, dodging through quickly before it swung shut, so no part of the door touched him. Was he American? I have no idea, but they are the ones, so we are told, who have cornered the market in germ paranoia. One thing was certain –…

A TODDLER is about the same size as a lamb. Maybe not a newborn lamb, but one that’s cute and cuddly. And if a wedge-tailed eagle can carry off a lamb then why not a toddler? Not so woolly, I grant you, but still reasonably easy to hang to. These are the kind of thoughts that occupy a grandfather’s mind. I can vouch for it. Especially when you – and the toddler – live in eagle country. And I have seven grandchildren. I’m not sleeping at nights. True, four of them are too big for an eagle and one of those could put a polar bear to flight, but the…

It’s my belief that you can learn anything from a book, if the book is good enough. I fancy brain surgery, but in the absence of a decent book, I baked a cake. I have a book for that. The book called it “The best Mississippi Mudcake” and it might have been true. I’ll never know. Now I need three more books: How to improvise; How to clean up the kitchen; How to read recipes. Possibly one called How to be a bachelor would be good, too. Buying the ingredients was easy. Chocolate, butter, strong black coffee, flour, bicarbonate of soda (I looked that up on Google to be sure…

“Hello?” Silence . . . not enough to convince me the line is dead. Then a small and pregnant pause, like the gap before your jam sandwich hits the floor jam-side down, and then a voice, which I don’t recognise, saying: “Good morning. May I speak to Mr Pearce. Pity the line wasn’t dead.  I want to reach down the phone line and throttle this voice dead in its place. “Speaking,” I say. Third mistake (the first was answering the phone; the second was saying hello). “GoodmorningMrPearceI’mcallingyoufromDalby.” I assume, from the accent, that he means Dalby, near Bombay. No, I am not a racist. I like Indian people, Chinese people,…