flossing the cat

As you will know by now,  I'm a self-confessed scaredy-cat. Slip roads, space hoppers, rounders, and checking voice mail, all give me the willies, as does the line: It puts the lotion in the basket. And don't get me started on that feathered monstrosity from the Seventies, Emu.  But now, following a recent visit to Bounce Below , a disused slate cavern featuring suspended trampoline nets, I have to add trampolines to the shit list. I should have known better, of course. Anything that describes itself as “offering a degree of physical challenge” is not for me.  But, as we are on a family holiday at the time, and there has already been an awful lot of visiting national monuments, a trip to a subterranean playground seems in order. ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE We make our way to Llechwedd Slate Caverns, boarding the underground train to the trampolines. “This is the actual old mining train”, I say, reading the leaflet. “It’s Victorian.”  “OMG. We’re not in

At the risk of sounding like a hater, I HATE flashers. I don’t mean folks who like to show you their bits. Unless you’re talking about Rihanna. If I ever see any of Rihanna’s bits, ever again, I will pluck out my own eyeballs. I mean motorists who think it’s the done thing to flash you with their headlights for no discernible reason. Take the other day. There I am, driving along the country road into my village, when a motorist flashes me. I check the speedometer. The instrument panel. The mirrors.   Nothing. A second motorist flashes me, then a third, this time with eye-melting LED headlights that emit more light than a nuclear explosion.   In a state of high anxiety, overwhelmed by the mind-altering pain of the retinal burn, I consider the following possibilities:   a) There is a corpse on my car roof. b) The radiator grille is spewing out Plague. c) The flesh-eating flying demon from Jeepers Creepers is preparing to swoop down on my car and eat my he