"Dad, why did you photograph all your meals?" "Because I'm certifiable. No . . . . it's for a blog post. Yes, that's it. . . . Eat your pasta."
My holiday meals. What could possibly excite you more? Basket weaving? Curling? Arsenal? The Proms? Eastenders? IPA? Proust? Showers? Sun? Sea? Bathing suits? The first cuckoo of Spring? Thomas Mann?
Compared to all of those, it's bollock-tightening stuff. (In a good way.)
Don't expect any explanation. Except to say that arm is Mike's. Unless it's mine. I'm much fatter and older than he is. No prizes for spotting when it's me.
I missed a few meals. Sorry. Promise to do better next time. Hunger sometimes triumphed. You don't get to be my size by fasting.
I snapped my beers, too. Most of them. There must be something wrong with me. You would let me know if I went crazy, wouldn't you?
It will improve. Word of honour. Tomorrow's post isn't bad. When we get to day three, well, what can I say?That's when I went to heaven. Without the inconvenience of dying.
But I shouldn't give away too much. Those professionals done learned me a thing or two. Tension. Teasing. Timidity. Topiary. Alliteration. Exciting eternal expectation.
Or just getting you to read tomorrow's post.
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