"I've been ringing this fucking bastard number on and off for an hour", I shouted into the phone.
Not that anyone replied. In fact for ten minutes I hadn't heard a damned thing, not since Mr Fucking Friendly, presumably in downtown Mumbai, had told me my call would be recorded.
"Is anyone there?" I muttered.
"Well, while you're recording I might as well tell you a funny story I heard at the weekend."
So I did.
And you know, as I was talking I realised it wasn't that funny. I also realised there's a lot of money to made this way, imagine an online therapist that you ramble onto for as long as you want, then later some twat rings you back and does a quick 3 minute analysis of your problems.
Big Tom to be had I tell you.

There's a slice of tomato laying on the floor near my foot, not too near, to get to it I'd have to stretch, or, god forbid, get out of my chair.
I suppose it's left over from the badger's picnic last night. It's my own fault, i always forget they hate tomato on their cheese and sardine sandwiches, it's just a knee-jerk reaction when making sandwiches to stick some tomato in there. Admittedly this has led to a few embarrassing moments when the vicar pops round for his favourite honey and peanut butter Sunday constitutionals, but hey, a habit is a habit... damn, nearly slipped into a nun joke there.

As Sunday approaches and the first of the Luncheon Club meetings I must admit to the odd tremor of apprehension. It's not the people, damned solid chaps all of them, well except Hazel obviously, but she makes up for it in madness, no, it's the choice of Indian food I worry about.
Well, it was mine, so I'm fucked. And the badgers will love the leftovers with their Sunday night halibut.
But what to cook?
For fuck sake, the answer is right in front of my nose.
Sorry, have to dash, there's a guy in Mumbai I need to chat to.