Whoopsie here. Two news items caught my eye this week. A major online news outlet reported that surgeons recently removed a tiddlywink from the nose of a 45-year-old New Zealand woman. And one of the UK red tops told us the sorry tale of a bloke who got hammered and recklessly changed his name for a bet.
The fellow that made the drunken bet apparently changed his name to that of WWE star John Cena. Embarrassing, but it could have been worse — what if he'd changed his name to that of Fanny Fluff, the burlesque artiste? Or taken the same name as 'Angle-grinder' Atkinson, the so-called 'third Kray Twin' — With a handle like that, he'd have been hard pushed to sign up for a Salsa class in Chelsea without hearing hoots of derision from his fellow dancers.
The other item that grabbed me was even more intriguing. When she was only nine years old, Tiddlywink Lady invented a game. Players shoved a tiddlywink up their nose and tried to snort it farther than their opponents (Aren’t children imaginative?) Anyhow, she breathed mightily in instead of mightily out and the tiddlywink shot up her nasal passages like a weasel up a drainpipe to embed itself in her sinuses, where it remained for nearly four decades.
Given today's universal fear of litigation, it's a wonder that tiddlywink sets don't carry a specific safety alert: 'Avoid snorting winks up your beak. Doing so might cause you to forfeit the game and may require corrective surgery decades hence.'
On a personal note I must have fallen victim to clickbait because a letter arrived this morning congratulating me on adopting a Sumatran rhino. Now, it's only £3 a month. Still, N'Doogoo — which the adoption agency reliably informs me is the name the leather-bound creature answers to, turned up on my doorstep last Thursday, expecting to move in! I mean, honestly? We don't have the room.
It's the same sort of embarrassing fiasco that arose when my husband and I met that lovely couple in Tenerife on our summer holidays last year.
After six bottles of Bacardi Breezer, Sid and Doris became our bestest ever pals.
But what happened in Tenerife should have stayed in Tenerife. Instead, Sid and Doris pitched up at our front door, Monday last, with eight suitcases between them. 'Remember saying "mi casa es su casa?" asked Doris, ‘well, ta-da, here we are!' She pushed past me down the hall in search of the guest bedroom.
I've called the RSPCA about N'doogoo, but they've a ferret to rescue in Felixstowe first, and haven't turned up yet. Sid and Doris are still here, though. Which is nice (not!)
Well, that's enough for now. I'll be in touch soon.