I think I am as open-minded as the next chap who holds himself to five martinis a day and likes his roast beef well done, but cats on our bed during the night would try the patience of a saint. I could see St. Francis of Assisi preparing to turn in his saint ribbon if some follower did not remove said cats from his wooden pallet forthwith.
Last week I told you about my attempts to find a way to earn a living in P.V. Here are more jobs I cannot do.
For instance those two guys who spray wet sand on themselves, then wait for it to dry before sitting in the sun at a table with a chess board, to the delight of tourists. People pay money to sit beside them and have their pictures taken.
I always smile when I hear about people who have moved to a subdivision at the end of an airport runway because it is less expensive and then complain to government about the noise. The same goes for those who move to a “wonderful house” beside an animal rendering plant and then are shocked, shocked by the unseemly odours.
But I do not begrudge the outraged neighbours their dismay about the squalor of Victoria’s infamous Tent City. They did not sign on for this eyesore, and it is not fair.
Just to give you an update on our condo situation, the annual general meeting has been cancelled. Why, you may ask? Me too.
My routine requires me to leap from my bed of pain and do health-giving exercises before my litre of orange juice. Perhaps “leap” is not the appropriate term at my time of life. If I am honest, it is not unlike a ball of pyjamas falling onto the bedroom floor. But let the record read that at least I make an effort.
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