Intimations of mortality

I've always liked the idea of a full-blown New Orleans-style jazz funeral, with a full retinue of musicians marching in synchopated time, starting out with a selection of King Oliver numbers up to the last lap towards the cemetary, at which point the line parts to allow the undertaker to get to the front. Taking the lead in the parade, and doing the vocals, he would then lead the band in a final rendition of "Mood Indigo." I've always liked that idea.

But one must be practical. More realistically, I think I'll settle for a fifty-strong all-girl brass kazoo band playing "Zippady Doo Dah."

Puss in Boots

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/6917113.stm

I reckon the cat's a serial killer.

On this side of the pond all we get is a succession of centenarian ladies boasting that they got their Queen's telegram on a diet of cigarettes and whisky. I don't know how they get on these days now they have to go outside for a smoke

Damp squib

I thought I'd go into Manchester to do some shopping: my dad's birthday's coming up so I thought I'd look for something a bit different. While I was there I thought I'd get a new raincoat as mine's getting a bit past its best. One or other of us is getting mildew and I rather hope it's the coat.

Do you know, you can't buy a raincoat in Manchester?

There were suits galore; blousons and reefer jackets aplenty. Every other store's packed with slackers' outfits and cloned Californian surfing gear. But not a raincoat in sight. I wasn't looking for anything particularly exotic, just a fawn raincoat, perhaps something nice in gaberdene. But nada.

"There's not much call for raincoats these days."

It's been pissing down for a month. This is what's wrong with the British retail industry.

I bet you can't move for surfers on the Medlock.