Painting the Garden Fence

This post was going to be about Hamlet's Third Soliloquy, but then I changed my mind.

It was going to be about creosote (pertaining to garden fences), but now it's not.

What it's going to be about I have no idea.

Hang on, I've just had one.

Just imagine that you're a 3 star Michelin Japanese chef and you've just carved a lotus flower from a fillet of Bluefin Tuna (It's difficult I know, but bear with me) when your Yakusa minder pops his head round the door and informs you that your S Class Mercedes has been confiscated due to tax evasion.

It's possible, although not very probable. Stuff happens.

Keith has upped and died. Forty eight years old when a vulgar cerebral haemorrhage flattened him in the kitchen and his knives clattered to the floor. No more tomato bowls (trickier than it sounds), no more cucumber darts.

He was an easily bored chef who was inventive with vegetables in both the culinary and sporting spheres. You can't ask for much more than that.

And he was a ferret fancier, and he had a pet rabbit called Horace who hops about the bar.

I could go on.