Still deid

Thankfully there's been no overnight reanimation. To be honest, the initial shocked, gaping, christ-I-thought-she'd-go-on-forever-and-ever, demise of someone who'd acquired mythical, evil incarnate status, has passed and now it's just irritation that it's become an excuse for people like Michael Heseltine to trot out the same old lies about how Thatcherism encouraged the spread of enterprise and entrepreneurial can-do and how she saved Britain from being held to ransom by the unions. And it's going to go on and on for a whole week and we still won't get a day off work for the funeral. Bored with it.

But anyway, the one aspect of Thatcherism that seems to be hanging on is the notion of thrift: that we should all be putting a little aside every day so that we can pass something on to future generations. So, this is my life savings. Actually, it's more than I have in real money.

Hmm, what shall I put in the Bank of Me today? Nothing much I'm afraid. A shorter than usual haircut, the bleurgh look on the weans' faces as they chewed into a Salty Sailor (an Icelandic Haribo that initially tastes of licquorice but then goes all, christ knows. Boiled Puffin maybe?). Hang on. Those photos are stuffed under the photographic mattress. This one's wrong. Never mind. The only good thing about the Salty Sailor is the scope for innuendo such as:

Camera fades in to show me standing by the bookcase examining sweetie packet
Colleague: Have you tried them yet?
Me (lying): Tried them? I've been gobbling salty sailors all morning.

Boom, boom. Oh how we laughed.