SO THERE I was in New York city when, all of a sudden, I found myself catapulted into the limelight.
I’M afraid I can’t do my column this week; I’m simply too excited.
I’M trying to think of words, words to describe what I’ve just been through. Oh, there are none.
A TERRIBLE crime has been committed. Yes, a terrible crime indeed. I’ve tried not to jump to conclusions, but I’m afraid there is simply no other explanation. My work mug has been stolen. Again.
“I HAVE a notepad,” mother says to me during one of our telephone calls, which mostly revolve around her speaking about my brother.
FROM today, Tuesday 7 September, there are 115 days left in the year. It is the 250th day of the year. Of course, I needed no help from Google to impart these facts, for I possess an encyclopaedic mind.
I FELT like I had purchased hard drugs. I was half expecting gun-toting armed guards to swoop down from the ceiling.
“UP on the bike,” she instructs. I try not to wince; I hadn’t seen this coming.
DAMSEL in distress – that was me. It was a real, proper, genuine damsel in distress moment, too, not like the usual scrapes I get myself into.
WARNING: Do not even attempt to read this article if you are male. Just don’t bother.