I wrote this long post about being part of a tedious panel discussion thingie and having a mint in my mouth and realising, suddenly, that there was no way on earth I could swallow that mint without being sick and having to attempt to creep away from the table and tripping, dragging all the eyes of the audience to me, and then not having a tissue in my bag, and by now things were getting desperate, and finally finding a very loud & crinkly receipt into which I could deposit the offending mint.
But Blogger gobbled my post.
It doesn't matter, because that's pretty much all that happened.
2 comments:
At the play last night we sat behind a 15-year-old boy who needed a tissue. Badly. He was holding his jacket sleeve up to his face, afraid to take it down. His sister rescued him before I found the tissues in my bag (he didn't know I was looking for them, thankfully). But somehow it was better when he held the sleeve up, because a 15-year-old boy cleaning his nose is not something you want to be forced to see from behind.
Sort of like plumber's crack (only snottier).
So shoot your shot and you'll be happy that you shot it.
'Cause I went for the WAMI and, damn it, I got it!
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