For now, a story, which I already reported to my sister via the spacebook.
This morning, I woke up and realized it was getting too late at night to call my grandma to inform her of my safe arrival. I quickly threw wrinkled, yet semi-clean clothes and a hat to cover my mangled and on the verge of greasy hair. I brushed my teeth quickly, inadvertantly leaving toothpaste on my face and bolted to the elevator (I still have no internet, and must go to a cafe to write magic like this). The lift stopped on floor 19 and a dashing young man entered. He commented on my hip headgear and we bonded until the ground floor. He told me his English name was Laurence because he likes Laurence Olivier:
"My dad looks like Laurence Olivier."
"No way! He must be very handsome."
"Well, more like the 1980s King Lear Olivier."
"Well, more like the 1980s King Lear Olivier."
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3 comments:
What a fabulous birthday present for The, Dad!
Alas, the drama, the mystery, the mystique are all gone. The world now knows what The, Dad, looks like, at least when he is near to falling asleep (which is, I guess, most the time). I trust that I shall never hear those unwelcome words, "Out, vile jelly. Where is thy luster now?"
Narcolepsy does seem to run in the family. At least you were falling asleep at my wedding rather than your own birthday party.
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