lunch with Boris Becker

Today I am not having lunch with Boris Becker. How should I be feeling about this? Surprised, disappointed, confused, relieved, nonplussed, forlorn, elated or indifferent? Once again I am not sure how I feel and cannot even begin to describe my current emotional state. Because to be fair, Boris never gave me reason to believe that we might be having lunch together. And I certainly never (wittingly at least) intimated that a luncheon might be on the cards for today.
Luncheon? What is a luncheon anyway? I never heard of anyone (Boris, or Prince Charles or Terry Nutkins or anyone) having a breakfasteon or a dinnereon so why luncheon? Who knows? Maybe Jimmy Wales knows. Jimmy Wales, someone else incidentally, that I am not having lunch with today in case you were wondering. But I digress. The point is not that I am not having lunch with Jimmy Wales, but that I am not lunching with the 3 times Champion of Wimbledon, Boris Becker. Why? Well, partly I imagine because Boris is busy. And I too am busy. Too busy for lunch? No, never. I always make time for lunch. I don't how to make time, if time can even be said to exist in any real sense but nevertheless I always manage to make some of it - for lunch. In this respect you could say I am slightly French, or Gallic - with the level of importance I attach to and my unwavering fondness for the second meal of the day - but only slightly. How do I feel about this? Bof.
One day I hope to meet Boris Becker and one day too I imagine Boris hopes to meet me. At some point in the future we will meet and talk about tennis and no doubt other sports (e.g basketball) and women and no doubt other female creatures (e.g cows) and we will get on so well like an amicable pair of old birds sitting in a tree that a lunch date will become an inevitable eventuality. It is just a matter of time and "time", as they (and when I say they, I mean Douglas Adams) say is, "is an illusion - lunchtime doubly so".

Moonshine & Trumpery - is any body there?

This morning I was in the middle of a bowl of muesli when I suddenly thought to myself: I’ve had approximately 11,500 breakfasts and I’m still not bored, on the contrary I honestly believe I enjoy breakfast now more than ever and hopefully I have plenty more to look forward to! Then I thought to myself : Who is this self I am thinking to?

Who am I? Who is I? If I am not myself then who or what is? I is the 9th letter of the Latin alphabet (after H and before J) but it’s also a word, the first person singular pronoun in English. We use it to refer to ourselves. It’s capitalised, whereas you, he, she and it are not. It’s important. I is important. But am I important? I was beginning to have my doubts.

I spun a yam and clung to Kent. Metaphorically, of course. I still don’t know what that means. How do you spin a yam? Is it a sweet potato or just really similar, how do you cling to a county and why would you want to? My primal sense of self, the poor defenceless creature, was under threat once more. The burden of existence thrust upon me without prior warning or consent, the overwhelming triviality of life bearing down on me, pulverising my moth-eaten, weather-beaten soul. Then I looked outside and saw that it was raining. So I turned on the TV. I watched for a moment and said to myself: It is raining outside, I don't know who I am, I am currently unconvinced of my purpose in life but at least I am not on the Jeremy Kyle show. I is not Jeremy Kyle, I is whoever you want I to be. Grammatically this all sounds very problematic, but existentially it is a walk in the park. Enjoy...