The View From Parson Street Nose

It was one of those mornings when only doughnuts would do. I woke up thinking of them and as soon as I had made myself look presentable I scurried to the bakers.

On my way home clutching the paper bag full of sugary delights and salivating at the very thought of savouring one with a steaming mug of coffee, an enormous cat leapt from a wall right across my chest.

I rocketed about a foot in the air, squealed like a piglet and collided with a cyclist. The bag of doughnuts flew skywards and rained down all over him.

I felt my lip twitch as he ticked me off while frantically brushing sugary dandruff from his high-vis vest and I wondered whether to tell him he had a doughnut stuck to his helmet. 

The real culprit, the wretched cat, however, was totally unbothered and proceeded to Hoover up sugar from the pavement like a fat furry Dyson.

When I had recovered from my doughnut drama, I ventured forth to Asda to purchase the dog's weekly canine cuisine (and perhaps a replacement bag of doughnuts).

As always the weirdness of Asda didn't disappoint. I was just two aisles in when I encountered a girl wearing her jimmy jams. They were a charming shade of pale blue with little wispy clouds scudding across them.

I watched her saunter along with a basket dangling from the crook of her arm and wondered if it was a sponsored something or other but as I could see no outward signs of any charity doo-dahs, I put it down to youthful nonchalance and wondered if there is an age at which stylish eccentricity turns into the screaming lu-lus?

And thinking about it, the way the Dave and Nick show has been going lately there may well be no Mental Health Trusts to keep us all in check in our dotage and perhaps there will come a day when we are all wandering through Bedminster in our under-crackers.