I woke with a headache yesterday and I knew why: I'd been making up jokes in my dream.
'What do you call an aeroplane carrying elephants?'
'A Jumbo jet?' Husband ventured.
'Oh no, although that makes more sense than my answer, which is a double jumbo.'
It was funny in my dream, okay? And if you think about the logic, a jumbo jet carrying elephants could be called a jumbo jumbo thus double jumbo. See?
I don't think I'll go into business as a joke writer though. Then again it's about as good as some cracker jokes.
You'll be sad to hear I can't remember the other joke I made up. In my dream. Now you understand why I had a headache on waking.
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Last night I lay awake for ages trying to remember who wrote About a Boy. More to the point, whether it was written by Nick Hornby and not the other man writer who writes proper stories (as opposed to crime/thrillers/mysteries).
(It was Nick Hornby and not Tony Parsons, whose name didn't come back to me until I was coming downstairs this morning.)
The reason I started on this sleep-preventing trail? My bedtime book of the moment, though possibly not much longer as it's not inspiring me yet, is written by Gill Hornby. You see how that caused sleeplessness? Is she married to Nick? And did she get published because she is? Or at least did she get given more opportunities because she is? Forgive my bitterness: I'm waiting to hear from an agent. It will be six weeks on Friday since I submitted my manuscript and the website said to email if you haven't heard back after six weeks but in my experience that means they then remember and reject you.
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A funeral this morning. A lovely lady who'd beaten breast cancer only to be struck with an unassociated lung disease. Beautiful service where her husband and children all managed to speak, though not always without tears.
I don't know about you but funerals always make me think of my own. Make me wonder who'd come and what they'd say. Such a shame we don't have funerals before we're dead. Then again perhaps I wouldn't want to hear what some people might say.
Two things I do want at my funeral: laughter and motorbikes. Not belonging to a motorbike club I'm probably not entitled to a biker parade but maybe I could have an honorary one. I shall have to speak to Sean about it.
Husband said he'll be too upset to laugh so I think I'll have to book Miranda to come and, well, just be Miranda. I'd better start saving now.