I was told a sad story this week. I’d like to share it with you.
Not to make you feel sad, too, but to illustrate there’s always somebody worse off than you . . . unless you’re Jeffrey Archer.
It was told to me by a man I bumped into in the supermarket, a man I hadn’t seen for more than a decade.
I couldn’t remember his name and (because time had added lots of wrinkles to his face and removed most of the hair from his head) I barely recognised him.
He tapped me on the shoulder as I was examining the calorie content on a can of stewed prunes (Don’t judge me: a man’s entitled to a hobby) and genially addressed me by my first name like it was a reunion of two old mates.
As he jabbered away, I vaguely recalled he was the cousin . . . or nephew . . . of a man whose girlfriend’s mother’s bestie once bought me a pint at the Machynlleth Comedy Festival.
Has someone ever approached you and spoken to you as if they’ve known you for years – and while their face is vaguely familiar, you just can’t recall their name? It’s a terrible feeling, isn’t it?
So, as they tell you their latest family news – which means very little to you – your brain frantically spools through the letters of the alphabet, in the hope that you land on the one that allows you to say, as if you’d known who they were all the time . . .
“I quite agree, Quentin” or “What terribly bad luck, Penelope!”
So, here’s that sad story told to me by someone whose name didn’t just escape me. It ran off into the mountains and several days later it’s still hiding in a deep dark cave.
His brother recently got married and, on the wedding night, the shy bride softly whispered, “Darling. I’ve been keeping a secret from you. I have one toe missing from my left foot and two toes missing from my right foot!”
Her new husband was absolutely furious with her and filed for divorce the following day.
Why?  Because he was lack-toes intolerant!