No, it’s not the bloody climb…

I was at the gym, in the ladies change room, coming out of the shower, when I heard Miley Cyrus and what sounded like a cat being strangled singing along to that song of hers about ‘it’s the climb.’ I stepped out half naked – fully naked you need beer goggles on to really appreciate me - and saw this other half naked woman with earphones on, with the volume up way too loud - I could hear Billy Ray’s daughter clearly – singing at the top of her lungs dancing around combing her hair. I dunno…free spirits – nature’s errant love children or science experiments gone wrong?

The picture? It’s of my letterbox at XH, my new home. I slapped a ‘no junk mail’ sticker on the mailbox as soon as I got out of the car. I cannot begin to tell you how much junk mail annoys me. Anyway, that’s Patrick, my car, to the left. The garden needs work, I have a bunch of fifty seven keys that could open anything from a door to the space shuttle to the liquor cabinet on the Titanic and for god sake whose idea was it to inflict vertical blinds on the world? They should be shot.