Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Old, so old...

To have one grey hair is a misfortune. To find two is worrying. Now I've found a third and that's it really. Over the hill, a has-been, one foot in the crematorium, this woodworker is as good as being no more. Of course I'm sure it's just a complete coincidence that this crop of washed out folicles has appeared just when I'm trying to make spokeshave handles. I mean it can't possibly be that reviewing is prematurely aging, can it? Aye, and there's the rub. It's not really premature is it? Oh me. So old... But then I always get like this on the run-up to my birthday. I'll be suicidal by the 30th...

But on another, much more important, note; what is it with Polos? The round, holey, minty sweets, not the Vee Dub. They must make millions of 'em, right? In state of the art, specially built I expect, Polo-making machinery. (And incidentally, what do they do with all the centres...?) So why is it you sometimes get a, well, soft Polo? You set out to suck away at it without busting through to the hole, in the time-honoured tradition of time-wasters everywhere, and suddenly it's crumbling in your mouth and the new world record is a washout. It's like dodgy pottery that hasn't been properly fired. Why can't the polo machine make them consistent? I blame Nestle. Look what they did to the Rolo packet. Taking away that extra one, and now they can't make decent Polos. The world's going to pot, it really is.

Sorry? What? Musing from the workbench you say? Yeah? So? Can't a person muse on Polos while they're at a workbench...?

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