I WANT to do nothing. But that’s not all. I want to do nothing without falling asleep and without feeling guilty about it. I used to once, about 45 years ago. I was a master. It helped that I found a bit in the Bible where it said idleness was a blessed state. I was very blessed. So were the things around me. My mum used to poke her head round the door and bark: “How much longer are you going to loaf around on that blessed bed!” It’s not easy to do nothing. It’s not to be confused with frying ants with a magnifying glass, or unbending a paper…

AGE has stolen more than my digestion. It’s purloined my dreams, too. And I don’t mean dreams as in that silly idea about sailing around the world single handed. It wasn’t age that stole that one. It was indolence and cowardice. The dreams I’m talking about are the ones that used to turn up when I was asleep – and younger. One of them was about flying. I mean, I was able to fly in it. I felt very privileged. You may not know this, but dreaming of flying is one of the few dreams that leaves the dreamer with a sense of extraordinary wellbeing – and normally it’s only…

I WRITE this stuff to try to lighten your day. Or at least to sow the thought that the human condition, if not funny, is at least peculiar. But you don’t need me. You’ve got George and Saddam. They’re definitely not funny – but they’re very peculiar. And suddenly I feel depressed, and unable to see the funny side of my wife’s complaints that I use too much soap in the shower. “How dare you moan about the rate of wear the soap suffers when there are madmen out there killing people!” I yell at her. The peculiar thing is (one of the peculiar things) is that if you ask anyone…

I’LL tell you this now because after today I shall be in jail. For murder, and I may not get another chance. It’s about eggs. Fried eggs. After fried bread, fried eggs are my favourite food. You have to cook them in butter. There’s something about fried eggs in butter. They smell like a banquet, and that touch of salt that comes naturally in the butter is enough to draw all the flavour from those marigold yellow yolks, to coat your mouth like a culinary feather bed. Except that I’m not allowed. Five years ago, when my wife caught a terminal dose of dietary concern, I was told eggs cooked…

LOOK, I am not getting my head shaved. I know it’s a good cause and I am prepared to give money to the Leukaemia Foundation, but I am not becoming a skinhead for anyone. I know about skinheads. They wear T-shirts with swastikas and Doc Marten boots and they stamp on people’s heads. And from today there’s going to be a lot of them abourt. This Shave for a Cure thing seems to have swept the civilised world. Flinders Mall market tomorrow is going to look like a boiled egg convention. I will be conspicuous for my thinning grey hair and I’m very happy about it. I know people in…