Every day I tremble at my first glimpse of the terrible Goddess, which subsides after she has combed her hair. When the day comes that it doesn't subside, at my age I'll have to start suspecting the onset of Parkinsons'.



This morning I thought I would start with my usual witty and stimulating banter.

"It's dustbin day." [for people who can only understand American - read trashcan]

She looked at me.

"Did you buy me a card?" and swept from the room to perform one of those secret rites that Goddesses do.

I have thought long and hard about this one and have come to the conclusion that she thinks that, for today, she is a dustbin . This suits me fine as I can now speak rubbish all day.

(And I thought today might be different. Lo, TG. Ed.)