socking it to the young master

Evening at the chateau.
Missus Healy is sitting with her favourite son watching something intellectual on the box.
"So has there been a rapprochement with Mags?" quoth she conversationellement.
"What do you mean?" sez I.
"You know. Because she gave you the socks."
By way of an answer, the mighty Heelers withdrew his right foot from its habillements and placed it squarely on the coffee table.
The Mammy peered closely, then recoiled.
"What on earth?!" she exclaimed with the air of one who exclaims regularly for a living.
The Heelers' toes were encrusted with black stains. Similar black stains appeared at the sweat points on the poet's ankle. In fact as far as my foot was conerned, black stains appeared to be the order of the day.
The Mammy took a second look.
"Did the socks do that?" sez she.
I nodded grimly.
"Liller," sez me, "they're unholy."

the numbers game

A year ago I walked away from the humour column.
Said goodbye to an audience of twenty thousand a week.
So what have I gained?
Let me think.
I wouldn't have written the blog if I hadn't ended the column.
Without the blog, I would never have come across Chamki in India, or Schneewittchen in Canada, or Genevieve in the USA who each write blogs of their own.
Those three were my gift of the year.
And there you have it.
I walked away from twenty thousand.
I gained three.
And because it was those three, I'm winning.

glimpses