The cup of coffee next to mine at Black Sheep this morning had the name "Torquil" on it. I didn't realize anyone was actually called that in real life (inasmuch as the City has any relation to real life).
TV show pitch: Last of the Sumer Wine. Three annoyingly roguish old blokes accidentally summon Ereshkigal via an inexplicably wheeled bathtub. She unleashes darkness, misery and gloom on West Yorkshire. No one notices.
I've noticed lately that there's one popular aftershave that smells of digestive biscuits, and another reminiscent of those weird freshening balls my mum used to chuck in the Hoover.
Definitely didn't have "80s coffee morning" as the vibe in men's fragrances for 2025.
I wanted to learn how to defend myself using only 60s Italian lounge music, but I can't find anywhere in London that can teach me Tae-Quando-Quando-Quando.
It may seem like an innocuous and jolly word by today's standards, but a "flibbertigibbet" was actually a 17th century gallows used to execute people convicted of being overly excitable.
Someone in our building has started learning the Koto, which means I'm now sitting outside in the evening sunshine with a sense of inner peace and harmony, but also a slight fear I'm going to be attacked by ninjas.
