There is a new dog in our household. She is called Lola. Since she arrived, I have not been able to get that Kinks song out of my head. You know the one? Lo-la ah-ah-lo-la. There, it’s in your head now, too. The song is about nearly accidentally having sex with a transvestite. Our Lola, however, is an unmistakable bitch.
She has a rejuvenating effect on all who meet her, in that we suddenly find ourselves spending half our lives running around after the mutt, yelling ‘No’, ‘Stop that!’, and ‘Drop it!’
She puked on a remote control the other day. Advice I am now qualified to give: Don’t pick up a remote control without looking at it first.
A portent of doom: As time has not proved to be a significant factor in recent days, I walked from Primrose Hill to Soho this morning to meet a friend for lunch. Distance: three miles. Result: My knee is fucked. When did I get so old?
I know how it happened. I used to drive a van with a heavy clutch, sitting in a seat which didn’t adjust to the optimum position for my height. I was asking for trouble! Of course, back then, if someone had warned me that I would have trouble with my knees, I would have lit a cigarette, said ‘not if cancer gets me first’ and blown smoke in their face.
Ok, I wouldn’t have done that, but I’m trying to make the point that I never think about consequences. Who does, really? I keep hearing stuff about my generation not putting any money towards a pension for our old age. It’s true. Hands up if you have a pension fund? Me neither.
I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Or more likely I’ll hobble across it, impeded by bad knees, cirrhosis of the liver and cancer of the everything.