Is it me or does Jeremy Hunt have the perpetual look of a man who is on his way somewhere else, but keeps being stopped by annoying people and made to do stuff about health? It may have been the case since day one: “Jeremy, we are giving you health.”
A long time ago, let’s call it 1988, I was working on a urology ward in London.
Apparently, astronomers have found another candidate for a habitable planet and, in relative terms, it is not too far away.
So I’m chatting to this nice young man, all youthful energy and floppy hair - him not me - and he’s telling me about his life because I am the only person left in the swimming pool changing rooms and putting his pants on in silence might have been a bit too challenging.
You may have noticed I don’t bang on as often as I used to.
Well I’m still basking in the afterglow of the Olympics.
The front page of last week’s Sunday Times went some way to illustrating the strangeness of modern Britain.
I think most people I know are working too hard.
It began as a simple trip to the pet shop, Fish-R-Us.
My daughter stops me: “Dad, Easter is about Jesus dying and being resurrected right?”