Shakespeare walks into a pub …

… and the landlord says, ‘I’m not serving you.’

Shakespeare says, ‘ Wherefore, prithee?’ (or something of the kind)

And the landlord says, ‘You’re bard!’


Oh – come ON!


And now … the weather

I confidently predict torrential rain on Wednesday, no matter what those amateurs at the BBC may suggest.

But why? How can I possibly be so sure?

It’s not the (non-existant) barometer in my hallway. It’s not the (also non-existant) seaweed hanging above the door. It’s not even a funny feeling in my elbow.

It’s my sister.

Wednesday is the day she goes to collect the Christian Aid envelopes she delivered last week and, going on the experience of previous years, she’ll be in for a dousing because, as we all know, no good deed goes unpunished.

She doesn’t seem to mind, phlegmatic little thing that she is. People are more likely to be at home, she reckons, if it’s raining. And, again on past performance, if she turns up on the doorstep looking like a drowned rat, she gets the sympathy vote and people seem to donate more.

That’s what she thinks, anyway. I hate to shatter her illusions, but their charitable donation may not be quite as pure and selfless as she imagines.

(This is not my sister, by the way. I borrowed this one. Mine is a hundred times more gorgeous.)