It's Always Darkest Before You Turn On The Light

  I was beside myself with excitement.  Sister Margaret Mary, my convent high school headmistress (the personification of pure evil - picture the nun from the movie of the same name), had just announced that the school would be presenting a nativity play for Christmas.  I had always dreamed of being an actor and figured this was my big opportunity to have the entire school witness my outstanding dramatic talents.  And I assumed that Sister Margaret Mary, having heard my many and various excuses for being late, realized that I was the obvious choice for a leading role. I was sure that I was a shoo-in for the virgin Mary as I was a virgin myself and I knew a guy named Joseph, so you can imagine my absolute shock when the cast list was posted and I was to play 'Shepherd #2', with one measly line - 'Here is the babe."  Here is the babe?  What kind of completely pointless remark was that?  Any idiot could see that the babe was right there in the straw....

I was walking down the street - which I highly recommend if you intend getting from one place to another - when I noticed a sign outside a store which read "Discount For Seniors And The Military."  I was immediately struck by lightning.  No, wait, that was a dream I had.  I was immediately struck by how progressive the Canadian Army was. They not only welcomed little gay people into their ranks, they were now accepting seniors!  What an innovative idea!  I realized this was a revolutionary approach to ending all conflicts.   You form an elite unit of senior citizens - they really should have their own distinct regiment - maybe the Pension Platoon or the Senior Squad - and place them on the front lines of battle.  As older people usually get up early, an attack at dawn is a piece of cake.  Then, when the order to charge is given, they stroll across no man's land pushing their walkers, stop halfway for a quick nap before knitting a scarf for th...

 I was up bright and early this morning as I had an appointment with the doctor to establish the cause of certain pain in my lower back (read bum).  After much poking and prodding, the doctor said "Can you PLEASE stop playing with my medical equipment and lie down on the bed?"  In my own defence, I argued that I had once entertained dreams of becoming a medical practitioner and so had a professional right to examine the various devices which were lying about.  The doctor, a stern-looking woman who would not have been out of place in a high security prison ward, was not amused.  She proceeded to examine me by pulling and pushing my body into various positions which I was sure left me qualified to apply to a circus as a contortionist.   Finally, she informed me that I have sciatica, pain affecting the back, hip, and outer side of the leg, caused by compression of a spinal nerve root in the lower back, often owing to degeneration of an intervertebral disk...

My hairstylist, or as I like to call her, 'Escaped mental patient #28 - If spotted do not engage but contact the police immediately', recently gave me a haircut that I can only assume is known in hairdressing circles as 'the bucket head'.  This hairstyle, I am convinced, was popular in the ranks of Oliver Cromwell's army and gave them their now infamous moniker of 'roundheads'.  In fact, I'm prepared to bet that if Cromwell was alive today he'd be extremely old. But back to me.  A small child once commented to me "I like you because your hair looks like a mushroom".  I think that just about says it all.  My daughter always asks me (through the bathroom door as I'm in there, post haircut, crying into the toilet and wondering if I might get away with wrapping the shower curtain around my head and pretending to be a Muslim) "Why do you keep going back to the same hair stylist?"  And I reply that I don't know.  That it's p...