The Secret Diary of Donald J Trump, aged 70 ¾
Thank God It’s Friday
BC on TV
Firetruckery of the Day
Guess Who's Back in Firetruckery?
I haven’t firetruckery-ied around here for some time. I’m not sure if my reluctance to post arose because the US presidential election has by itself provided more firetruckeries than the world has needed for months, so more from me seemed otiose, or because I have myself been under a lot of all kinds of pressure in the same period. For one reason or another, e.g., most of them lying outside my choice, I have not been at home in Barbados for longer than two consecutive weekends in the last 15; that alone is enough firetruckery for anyone who doesn’t go to work everyday on an airplane: how are you supposed to maintain a garden if you’re mowing the lawn three times in three months? Add to that both the lawn mower and the weed-whacker going on strike at the same time and you start to get the big picture of my little firetruckeries. More significantly, I’ve had to accommodate big changes in my little ones: my son broke his wrist the day before he was to start a two-week Arsenal football camp, necessitating my having to rush off to England; and my now-adult daughter moved away: my little girl is in the big city.
So the antics of the Donald just haven’t registered on my consciousness.
Anyway, this is just to say that, though I’m on the move again – to Port of Spain, for the Trinidad & Tobago Film Festival – I’m also moving away from contemplating my own little firetruckeries to the bigger ones we all are getting in our nen-nen; whatever that means for my good mood.