I knew last week was going to be a weird one when I drew back my bedroom curtains Monday morning, looked out the window and saw a postman walking past.
Not past my bedroom window.
That would have been so weird I’d be writing about it in a scientific journal, rather than here.
He was walking along the pavement and due to irresponsible dog owners, he couldn’t walk in a straight line.
He had to side-step every few yards, because . . . well, I needn’t paint you a picture.
Although I could knock you up a nice water colour of a fruit bowl, for 50 quid. Just 60 quid if you’d like some fruit in the bowl!
It was weird because you’re more likely to see the Pope walking down our street than a postman.
Although, I’ve only seen the Pope around here once.
Well, he looked quite like him, but when he asked for directions to the nearest tobacconists so he could buy some Rizla paper, I started to doubt it.
Even weirder – the postie wore trousers, not the regulation shorts that some archaic clause in their employment contract compel them to don from October to March each year.
The weirdness continued when I popped into a café and was greeted by the sight of three young women sat at a table, all sobbing uncontrollably.
I’m enough of a modern man to know that these days the rules have changed with regard to engaging ladies of the opposite gender we don’t know in conversation.
But they looked so forlorn, I sat down at their table, in the hope I might be able to be of assistance.
I said “You all seem very upset, ladies. Perhaps we could discuss your problems over a cup of tea?”
They all agreed, so I went to the counter to order tea for four and by the time I sat down at the table they’d stopped crying.
After the waiter had brought cups, saucers and a large pot of tea, I said “Right, ladies. Who’s going to be mother?”
. . . And they all started crying again.
As I said…it was weird week.