postcript

Just a thought: you must have been wondering why I was rambling on about cupcakes earlier.  Well, we have a new café-come-cake shop in the town under the name of one of those famous TV chefs (I presume it’s a franchise of some sort, shouldn’t think he has come here) and there was a very attractive display of the things in the window. £2.85 apiece!! Who can afford to buy one cupcake for that sort of money? Plenty of people, apparently; judging by the number of people emerging proudly bearing little white cartons, they were selling out like hot cakes. (Well, you know what I mean.)

I don't get cupcakes

I don’t get cupcakes.

I don’t mean that nobody ever gives me any (though they don’t), but that I just don’t understand their appeal.  They do look very pretty, of course, but why have all the lovely thick butter icing stuck on top, where it gets all over your upper lip and on the end of your nose whenever you take a bite? Maybe my mouth isn’t big enough, but I do prefer it in the middle, as in a butterfly cake or a nice Victoria sandwich.

Sorry, that was my doorbell. Have to go.

Here I am again. It was a nice young man wanting me to do some sort of survey – an Ipsos Mori poll, he said.  I quite like filling in forms, so I said I’d do it; besides, I felt sorry for him. It is pouring with rain and the poor boy was soaking wet. He showed me the little booklet, explained what I would have to do. He was very polite. A student, he said.  Iranian, I think, or Iraqi. Lebanese, perhaps; it’s difficult to tell. Anyway, I have to keep a record of when I listen to the radio and to which channels. He’ll pick it up in a week.

The form will be a bit empty, I did warn him. I hardly ever turn the radio on.