POT of gold. Geddit?!

You may live in a place where bus drivers don't look like crackhead prison escapees on the lam, where your shop clerks smile and tell you to have a nice day, where your police officers help little old ladies cross the road and ..well, you get the picture. That place is NOT Glasgow. 

Case in point: my new postman was clearly stoned as a motherfucker today, and whilst I found this HILARIOUS, he is entrusted with important documents. Do you really want your replacement credit card entrusted to a guy with bloodshot eyes, squinting at the house numbers because he's got a wicked case of stoned vertigo?

Look, everyone likes to get sideways now and again. Whether through drink, drugs - or both if you like to go big or go home - we've all been there. But if you're doing it on the job, that shit will not stand. Unless you're a commercial pilot. Or a politician. Those guys are twisted the whole time. 

So, I hear this tentative knock on the front door. It's my postman, wearing a look of deep perplexity. "Uh. Is this..um, your flat?" Now let's take a moment to analyse this question. Since I opened the door, the answer is probably "Yes", and even if it wasn't? He's asking because he has mail to deliver to the property, so ownership is irrelevant. He starts rummaging limply through his postbag, and produces a heap of mail. Like, way more than I have ever received. "Um. Ok. I have some...um..post for you. I think." I continued to look at him blandly, nodding. No WAY was I going to help him dig himself out of his hilarious, bong-smoked-filled hole. 

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Well. That was from yesterday. I have started all sorts of entries over the last few days, but they never get finished. I'm publishing this one because, Christ, if I don't, I'll never get this monkey on my back updated. 

It's St Patrick's day. We are sleepily full after a massive lunch. We've had a few quiet drinks in front of the rugby. The kids are having fun  running about outside with a rugby ball. What a relaxed, fun day.