In my curmudgeonly GOWness, I become enraged about strange things.
I see no reason to have thrust upon me, stupid interviews with talentless
who the feck cares anyway sets of mammaries or muscles, of supposed talent.
I really don't care what some stupid bimbo is doing with her body or partners or what names she is inflicting on her kids. I dont care who is currently attempting to 'sing', or even 'act'. (Unless of course, it was the hopelessly flat & tuneless male, polluting the whole mall with his ghastly 'singing' of old Italian songs, such as Amore, Funicule funicula! (I apologise for the perhaps wrong spelling here.) His white hair appeared tinged with Ginger! Had he dyed it? Or is it some new fashion? I concluded they were attempting to drive what little custom they have left, out of this dying Mall.
Later I spoke to a woman who was 'delighted by the singing' & 'so thrilled when the singer kissed my cheek when I joined in'. Good grief, I had better hold my toungue, then!
It is true. It takes all sorts to make the world what it is.
You may notice I have updated my header with our lovely cream Clivea, which literally is a Free Treat, since a kind neighbour gave us the plant.
Here, for my entertainment, is,
Interview with the Oranges.
"Good morning Orange. I see you have an odd scar there? May I ask how you acquired that?"
"No, you may not. Well you may, but I won't be able to answer you. It happened when I was a very small fruit, hardly out of bud, really, so I have no real memory of it. Even if I did, I am sure I would wish the trauma to be forgotten, so I don't really appreciate your asking about it. Nor photographing the scar."
" Oh! I am sorry to hear you feel that way. I did not ask to offend in any way. I just thought it an interesting feature, & felt people might be interested in knowing the story behind the, er, the blemish."
Now some fabulous Kiwi Music. Bows to Amanda!