BY MAIRÉAD WILMOT
THE last straw came when Claude tried to kill me. Had he not tried to murder me, I would possibly consider not having to murder him, but a pound of flesh and all that Shylock jazz.
Mairead Wilmot
I PRESUME it’s a bad reflection on me that a kindly lady (a) offered me half of her Nature Valley bar, and then (b) offered to take me home after my spinning class.
Mairead Wilmot
“WHAT’S he doing now?” I ask. “He’s sleeping,” says my sister, as we discuss my favourite topic.
YES, yes, happy new year and all that malarkey.
SEEING as the festive season is just around the corner, I am being forced into considering Christmas shopping.
I DON’T know why they call it a ‘fun run’. Just because the two words rhyme doesn’t mean they have to be put together.
IN retrospect, I should not have announced that sister’s boyfriend had managed to get out of going to the family shindig.
THERE have been some terribly exciting developments.
MONEY money money. Must be funny. In a rich man’s world. Man, Abba had it so right on.
I’VE been on holidays for about four weeks now.