THE omens were not good. I’d been standing on the platform for ages freezing from feet to top of my head and really beginning to wonder why I’d given in to my friend’s constant nagging (12 months of it to be precise) to persuade me to visit for a weekend. I didn’t want to go.
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I DON'T think it's a symptom of encroaching senility because I've been doing it for decades, but talking to (not to mention bellowing at) the TV or radio is clearly the sign of, at best, a confused mind.
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TRADITION dictates that it's the rich what gets the pleasure, the poor what gets the blame - but while that nugget of socioeconomic analysis remains essentially sound, the balance between self-indulgence and culpability is rather more complex these days.
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I'VE been offered the chance to have a What Not to Wear style makeover, where a lady goes through my wardrobe, chucks out everything that makes me look like Heather from EastEnders and is honest about my sense of style.
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LAST weekend, while in the garden, Paul got attacked by a bear and dislocated his shoulder trying to protect me from its fierce jaws and immense weight.
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