Post Whatever You Are Thinking At This Very Moment

[Anonymous]

Why hasn't this girl text me back?....

 

[evennow]

I am left scratching my head as to why as a Premium member I am still getting pop up ads? I should have read the fine print.

 

[Peppermint]

I am left scratching my head as to why as a Premium member I am still getting pop up ads? I should have read the fine print.

You just need Adblock Plus, evennow: https://adblockplus.org/

 

[evennow]

You just need Adblock Plus, evennow: https://adblockplus.org/

Thank you PEP! get ready for Christmas morning!

 

[Johnny Barleycorn]

Thinking I lost all my enthusiasm for life. I don't even know the exact moment when it happened. It's weird.

I find it really interesting as I grow older the way the inevitable, so long seemingly repressed by my consciousness for fear it would render all things irrelevant, is creeping in. Around the time of the London Olympics I contracted a virus, exact type still unknown, that attacked my heart. Why it couldn’t attack something I had two of I don’t know. It’s one of several reasons I didn’t win a medal.

For about six weeks I couldn’t walk even three feet. No exaggeration. I was told that, of course, the damage was permanent and that although I could expect a long life the chances are it would limit activities from time to time and complications arising would present themselves. They did indeed and on October 23rd last I suffered a heart attack. Not knowing exactly what it was and thinking I could shake it off, I waited about five hours before contacting the ambulance service. Talk about denial. It did explain, however, why in the previous three months I’d collapsed spark out in the street four times, and been attended to by kindly passers-by. Twice. And left to my own devices twice. I’m not sure how someone could walk past, around or over someone lying unconscious in the street but such people do exist.

I don’t have any family around here, and my mother, well on the way to eighty still doesn’t know. As I’m now also single, fending for myself was the only alternative. I learnt three things in my five day stay in hospital. Always carry a phone charger, the NHS would work a lot better without the patients getting in the way, and I could form a long term and loving relationship with morphine very easily.

In Blade Runner replicants were given a four year lifespan. I feel I’m approaching my own inbuilt redundancy. It doesn’t scare me or sadden me, or wish I had done more. I have few regrets. I did it my way, etc. I essentially retired at thirty-two having discovered a crime the police don’t really care about. The near-death experience gave me a slightly different perspective on the gaping maw of eternity we all face. How many people in this country alone said goodbye to their family this morning and are now cooling off in a morgue? Dozens? Scores? Hundreds? Actually about fifteen hundred people die in the UK every day.

On another thread I made the perhaps curious argument that if you could talk to John Lennon from beyond the veil he might on reflection think that being murdered wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to him.

All I was questioning was who made John Lennon a legend and was it necessarily John Lennon? I’d argue that it wasn’t. In the same way I would question who or what made JFK a legend or Marilyn Monroe or James Dean. Kennedy’s death set the United States down a path both good and bad, most immediately Vietnam, of course, but also the ultimate victory of the Civil Rights Movement under Johnson on one hand, and Watergate under Nixon on the other. “Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.” At much the same time the reputation of Brian Jones, a key if declining member of the second greatest band in the world at the time sank, literally, like a Stone. Few still mourns for him. Including it seems, Mick and Keef.

Why are Elvis and Hendrix legendary, yet not spoken of in quite the same reverential tones as certain others? Dying on the lavatory or choking on your own vomit are clearly not very glamorous, but nor is an overdose or driving like an idiot, and yet... Princess Diana, whose death convulsed the nation and caused many of us to question that week whether we’d woken up on an alien planet, is now largely forgotten, relegated to an occasional Channel 5 documentary and a couple of minutes on the news on key anniversaries. .

Mass market pop/popular culture, which I think it’s fair to say is as dead as a dodo, lasted two just generations before shattering into a million pieces and ten thousand specialist radio stations. You could even perhaps characterise it as being bookended by Sinatra and the Smiths, with the former being the first to elicit an almost religious fervour amongst his fans and the latter the last to do so. Morrissey alone, of all his peers and predecessors, now clings to that religiosity for both solace and a living. He is indeed the last of the famous international playboys.

The Beatles remain at the apex of that fevered enthusiasm in a pop culture context even fifty years after they split up. The music, clearly often sublime, is at the core of it, but other factors are sometimes cited even down to apparently minuscule things like the pleasing symmetry of Paul and George playing left handed and right handed at the microphone. The four Beatles also each had a different personality type which will have resonated with their fanbase: John the cynic, Paul the optimist, George the introvert, Ringo the clown.

Lennon was clearly a brilliant artist, that brilliance further magnified by the turbulent era in which he came to prominence. By 1980 those powers had waned and the fire of his activism had been replaced by a pleasant enough but inconsequential AOR professionally and life on the school run privately.

Leaving aside (if we can, and perhaps we should not) the horror of his demise, leaving aside the dreadful consequences for his loved ones, leaving aside the wickedness of the perpetrator, Lennon’s myth was preserved forever and sealed in amber that December morning in New York. Mark Chapman and the media made John Lennon a legend. Lennon provided the building blocks.

Most people’s lives end in an ellipsis, but Lennon’s ended with a resounding full stop, and I doubt ultimately in a universe of boundless time a man of Lennon’s intellect and sense of the absurd would have given a damn.



I now know with a degree of certainty my life will end with a hopefully short and sharp chest pain, done away with by a vulgar and unknown virus contracted who knows where or how in the early months of 2012. I am, I tell myself, akin to Tony Stark. Without the money, the fame, the tin suit, or the constant need to fend off nubile lingerie models. f***.

You can blame Wolves versus Huddersfield for that stream of nonsense. I intend now to risk my very life by hoovering the stairs. Pray for me. If I’m not back in a week you’ll know I didn’t make it.

 

[Peppermint]

I find it really interesting as I grow older the way the inevitable, so long seemingly repressed by my consciousness for fear it would render all things irrelevant, is creeping in. Around the time of the London Olympics I contracted a virus, exact type still unknown, that attacked my heart. Why it couldn’t attack something I had two of I don’t know. It’s one of several reasons I didn’t win a medal.

For about six weeks I couldn’t walk even three feet. No exaggeration. I was told that, of course, the damage was permanent and that although I could expect a long life the chances are it would limit activities from time to time and complications arising would present themselves. They did indeed and on October 23rd last I suffered a heart attack. Not knowing exactly what it was and thinking I could shake it off, I waited about five hours before contacting the ambulance service. Talk about denial. It did explain, however, why in the previous three months I’d collapsed spark out in the street four times, and been attended to by kindly passers-by. Twice. And left to my own devices twice. I’m not sure how someone could walk past, around or over someone lying unconscious in the street but such people do exist.

I don’t have any family around here, and my mother, well on the way to eighty still doesn’t know. As I’m now also single, fending for myself was the only alternative. I learnt three things in my five day stay in hospital. Always carry a phone charger, the NHS would work a lot better without the patients getting in the way, and I could form a long term and loving relationship with morphine very easily.

In Blade Runner replicants were given a four year lifespan. I feel I’m approaching my own inbuilt redundancy. It doesn’t scare me or sadden me, or wish I had done more. I have few regrets. I did it my way, etc. I essentially retired at thirty-two having discovered a crime the police don’t really care about. The near-death experience gave me a slightly different perspective on the gaping maw of eternity we all face. How many people in this country alone said goodbye to their family this morning and are now cooling off in a morgue? Dozens? Scores? Hundreds? Actually about fifteen hundred people die in the UK every day.

On another thread I made the perhaps curious argument that if you could talk to John Lennon from beyond the veil he might on reflection think that being murdered wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to him.

All I was questioning was who made John Lennon a legend and was it necessarily John Lennon? I’d argue that it wasn’t. In the same way I would question who or what made JFK a legend or Marilyn Monroe or James Dean. Kennedy’s death set the United States down a path both good and bad, most immediately Vietnam, of course, but also the ultimate victory of the Civil Rights Movement under Johnson on one hand, and Watergate under Nixon on the other. “Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.” At much the same time the reputation of Brian Jones, a key if declining member of the second greatest band in the world at the time sank, literally, like a Stone. Few still mourns for him. Including it seems, Mick and Keef.

Why are Elvis and Hendrix legendary, yet not spoken of in quite the same reverential tones as certain others? Dying on the lavatory or choking on your own vomit are clearly not very glamorous, but nor is an overdose or driving like an idiot, and yet... Princess Diana, whose death convulsed the nation and caused many of us to question that week whether we’d woken up on an alien planet, is now largely forgotten, relegated to an occasional Channel 5 documentary and a couple of minutes on the news on key anniversaries. .

Mass market pop/popular culture, which I think it’s fair to say is as dead as a dodo, lasted two just generations before shattering into a million pieces and ten thousand specialist radio stations. You could even perhaps characterise it as being bookended by Sinatra and the Smiths, with the former being the first to elicit an almost religious fervour amongst his fans and the latter the last to do so. Morrissey alone, of all his peers and predecessors, now clings to that religiosity for both solace and a living. He is indeed the last of the famous international playboys.

The Beatles remain at the apex of that fevered enthusiasm in a pop culture context even fifty years after they split up. The music, clearly often sublime, is at the core of it, but other factors are sometimes cited even down to apparently minuscule things like the pleasing symmetry of Paul and George playing left handed and right handed at the microphone. The four Beatles also each had a different personality type which will have resonated with their fanbase: John the cynic, Paul the optimist, George the introvert, Ringo the clown.

Lennon was clearly a brilliant artist, that brilliance further magnified by the turbulent era in which he came to prominence. By 1980 those powers had waned and the fire of his activism had been replaced by a pleasant enough but inconsequential AOR professionally and life on the school run privately.

Leaving aside (if we can, and perhaps we should not) the horror of his demise, leaving aside the dreadful consequences for his loved ones, leaving aside the wickedness of the perpetrator, Lennon’s myth was preserved forever and sealed in amber that December morning in New York. Mark Chapman and the media made John Lennon a legend. Lennon provided the building blocks.

Most people’s lives end in an ellipsis, but Lennon’s ended with a resounding full stop, and I doubt ultimately in a universe of boundless time a man of Lennon’s intellect and sense of the absurd would have given a damn.



I now know with a degree of certainty my life will end with a hopefully short and sharp chest pain, done away with by a vulgar and unknown virus contracted who knows where or how in the early months of 2012. I am, I tell myself, akin to Tony Stark. Without the money, the fame, the tin suit, or the constant need to fend off nubile lingerie models. f***.

You can blame Wolves versus Huddersfield for that stream of nonsense. I intend now to risk my very life by hoovering the stairs. Pray for me. If I’m not back in a week you’ll know I didn’t make it.

Absorbing post, Johnny. And you're right, it's the bullet that canonised John Lennon (with a little help from the media). I can't help wondering, were someone to shoot Morrissey (not that I'm suggesting it), would he reach the same level of saintdom? I doubt it, though. I'm sorry to hear of your horrendous bit of bad luck and frightening heart problems. You are quite right, collapsing in public is no guarantee of any kind of response, from anybody. I collapsed in Morrisons a few years back and although a few people came and peered at me, lying on the floor, nobody asked if I was okay. However, the staff did put my shopping through the checkout, and kindly helped me to my feet when they needed my credit card. I do hope the hoovering didn't trigger anything fatal.

 

[evennow]

I find it really interesting as I grow older the way the inevitable, so long seemingly repressed by my consciousness for fear it would render all things irrelevant, is creeping in. Around the time of the London Olympics I contracted a virus, exact type still unknown, that attacked my heart. Why it couldn’t attack something I had two of I don’t know. It’s one of several reasons I didn’t win a medal.

For about six weeks I couldn’t walk even three feet. No exaggeration. I was told that, of course, the damage was permanent and that although I could expect a long life the chances are it would limit activities from time to time and complications arising would present themselves. They did indeed and on October 23rd last I suffered a heart attack. Not knowing exactly what it was and thinking I could shake it off, I waited about five hours before contacting the ambulance service. Talk about denial. It did explain, however, why in the previous three months I’d collapsed spark out in the street four times, and been attended to by kindly passers-by. Twice. And left to my own devices twice. I’m not sure how someone could walk past, around or over someone lying unconscious in the street but such people do exist.

I don’t have any family around here, and my mother, well on the way to eighty still doesn’t know. As I’m now also single, fending for myself was the only alternative. I learnt three things in my five day stay in hospital. Always carry a phone charger, the NHS would work a lot better without the patients getting in the way, and I could form a long term and loving relationship with morphine very easily.

In Blade Runner replicants were given a four year lifespan. I feel I’m approaching my own inbuilt redundancy. It doesn’t scare me or sadden me, or wish I had done more. I have few regrets. I did it my way, etc. I essentially retired at thirty-two having discovered a crime the police don’t really care about. The near-death experience gave me a slightly different perspective on the gaping maw of eternity we all face. How many people in this country alone said goodbye to their family this morning and are now cooling off in a morgue? Dozens? Scores? Hundreds? Actually about fifteen hundred people die in the UK every day.

On another thread I made the perhaps curious argument that if you could talk to John Lennon from beyond the veil he might on reflection think that being murdered wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to him.

All I was questioning was who made John Lennon a legend and was it necessarily John Lennon? I’d argue that it wasn’t. In the same way I would question who or what made JFK a legend or Marilyn Monroe or James Dean. Kennedy’s death set the United States down a path both good and bad, most immediately Vietnam, of course, but also the ultimate victory of the Civil Rights Movement under Johnson on one hand, and Watergate under Nixon on the other. “Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.” At much the same time the reputation of Brian Jones, a key if declining member of the second greatest band in the world at the time sank, literally, like a Stone. Few still mourns for him. Including it seems, Mick and Keef.

Why are Elvis and Hendrix legendary, yet not spoken of in quite the same reverential tones as certain others? Dying on the lavatory or choking on your own vomit are clearly not very glamorous, but nor is an overdose or driving like an idiot, and yet... Princess Diana, whose death convulsed the nation and caused many of us to question that week whether we’d woken up on an alien planet, is now largely forgotten, relegated to an occasional Channel 5 documentary and a couple of minutes on the news on key anniversaries. .

Mass market pop/popular culture, which I think it’s fair to say is as dead as a dodo, lasted two just generations before shattering into a million pieces and ten thousand specialist radio stations. You could even perhaps characterise it as being bookended by Sinatra and the Smiths, with the former being the first to elicit an almost religious fervour amongst his fans and the latter the last to do so. Morrissey alone, of all his peers and predecessors, now clings to that religiosity for both solace and a living. He is indeed the last of the famous international playboys.

The Beatles remain at the apex of that fevered enthusiasm in a pop culture context even fifty years after they split up. The music, clearly often sublime, is at the core of it, but other factors are sometimes cited even down to apparently minuscule things like the pleasing symmetry of Paul and George playing left handed and right handed at the microphone. The four Beatles also each had a different personality type which will have resonated with their fanbase: John the cynic, Paul the optimist, George the introvert, Ringo the clown.

Lennon was clearly a brilliant artist, that brilliance further magnified by the turbulent era in which he came to prominence. By 1980 those powers had waned and the fire of his activism had been replaced by a pleasant enough but inconsequential AOR professionally and life on the school run privately.

Leaving aside (if we can, and perhaps we should not) the horror of his demise, leaving aside the dreadful consequences for his loved ones, leaving aside the wickedness of the perpetrator, Lennon’s myth was preserved forever and sealed in amber that December morning in New York. Mark Chapman and the media made John Lennon a legend. Lennon provided the building blocks.

Most people’s lives end in an ellipsis, but Lennon’s ended with a resounding full stop, and I doubt ultimately in a universe of boundless time a man of Lennon’s intellect and sense of the absurd would have given a damn.



I now know with a degree of certainty my life will end with a hopefully short and sharp chest pain, done away with by a vulgar and unknown virus contracted who knows where or how in the early months of 2012. I am, I tell myself, akin to Tony Stark. Without the money, the fame, the tin suit, or the constant need to fend off nubile lingerie models. f***.

You can blame Wolves versus Huddersfield for that stream of nonsense. I intend now to risk my very life by hoovering the stairs. Pray for me. If I’m not back in a week you’ll know I didn’t make it.

Thank you for posting this Johnny. Very touching. It must have felt good to let so much out given your current state. I think your similarly named Mr. Lennon would have enjoyed reading it as well. Keep you chin up and a stiff upper lip as the Brits are known to do. The grass is always greener on the other side unless you are staring at it from six feet under.

There may not be much time for any of us, but there is always time for a laugh, or smile. Be well.

 

[E Scott]

Absorbing post, Johnny. And you're right, it's the bullet that canonised John Lennon (with a little help from the media). I can't help wondering, were someone to shoot Morrissey (not that I'm suggesting it), would he reach the same level of saintdom? I doubt it, though. I'm sorry to hear of your horrendous bit of bad luck and frightening heart problems. You are quite right, collapsing in public is no guarantee of any kind of response, from anybody. I collapsed in Morrisons a few years back and although a few people came and peered at me, lying on the floor, nobody asked if I was okay. However, the staff did put my shopping through the checkout, and kindly helped me to my feet when they needed my credit card. I do hope the hoovering didn't trigger anything fatal.

Oh Pep hope you're OK mdear. Morrissons should have a special aisle for the infirm. Maybe St John's ambulance could supervise. Seriously did you know that some supermarkets are having special slots for folk with Autism?. Sometimes public are scared to act if they see someone collapse in case they do something WRONG. All supermarkets have defibrillators - was it your heart?

I find it really interesting as I grow older the way the inevitable, so long seemingly repressed by my consciousness for fear it would render all things irrelevant, is creeping in. Around the time of the London Olympics I contracted a virus, exact type still unknown, that attacked my heart. Why it couldn’t attack something I had two of I don’t know. It’s one of several reasons I didn’t win a medal.

For about six weeks I couldn’t walk even three feet. No exaggeration. I was told that, of course, the damage was permanent and that although I could expect a long life the chances are it would limit activities from time to time and complications arising would present themselves. They did indeed and on October 23rd last I suffered a heart attack. Not knowing exactly what it was and thinking I could shake it off, I waited about five hours before contacting the ambulance service. Talk about denial. It did explain, however, why in the previous three months I’d collapsed spark out in the street four times, and been attended to by kindly passers-by. Twice. And left to my own devices twice. I’m not sure how someone could walk past, around or over someone lying unconscious in the street but such people do exist.

I don’t have any family around here, and my mother, well on the way to eighty still doesn’t know. As I’m now also single, fending for myself was the only alternative. I learnt three things in my five day stay in hospital. Always carry a phone charger, the NHS would work a lot better without the patients getting in the way, and I could form a long term and loving relationship with morphine very easily.

In Blade Runner replicants were given a four year lifespan. I feel I’m approaching my own inbuilt redundancy. It doesn’t scare me or sadden me, or wish I had done more. I have few regrets. I did it my way, etc. I essentially retired at thirty-two having discovered a crime the police don’t really care about. The near-death experience gave me a slightly different perspective on the gaping maw of eternity we all face. How many people in this country alone said goodbye to their family this morning and are now cooling off in a morgue? Dozens? Scores? Hundreds? Actually about fifteen hundred people die in the UK every day.

On another thread I made the perhaps curious argument that if you could talk to John Lennon from beyond the veil he might on reflection think that being murdered wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to him.

All I was questioning was who made John Lennon a legend and was it necessarily John Lennon? I’d argue that it wasn’t. In the same way I would question who or what made JFK a legend or Marilyn Monroe or James Dean. Kennedy’s death set the United States down a path both good and bad, most immediately Vietnam, of course, but also the ultimate victory of the Civil Rights Movement under Johnson on one hand, and Watergate under Nixon on the other. “Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.” At much the same time the reputation of Brian Jones, a key if declining member of the second greatest band in the world at the time sank, literally, like a Stone. Few still mourns for him. Including it seems, Mick and Keef.

Why are Elvis and Hendrix legendary, yet not spoken of in quite the same reverential tones as certain others? Dying on the lavatory or choking on your own vomit are clearly not very glamorous, but nor is an overdose or driving like an idiot, and yet... Princess Diana, whose death convulsed the nation and caused many of us to question that week whether we’d woken up on an alien planet, is now largely forgotten, relegated to an occasional Channel 5 documentary and a couple of minutes on the news on key anniversaries. .

Mass market pop/popular culture, which I think it’s fair to say is as dead as a dodo, lasted two just generations before shattering into a million pieces and ten thousand specialist radio stations. You could even perhaps characterise it as being bookended by Sinatra and the Smiths, with the former being the first to elicit an almost religious fervour amongst his fans and the latter the last to do so. Morrissey alone, of all his peers and predecessors, now clings to that religiosity for both solace and a living. He is indeed the last of the famous international playboys.

The Beatles remain at the apex of that fevered enthusiasm in a pop culture context even fifty years after they split up. The music, clearly often sublime, is at the core of it, but other factors are sometimes cited even down to apparently minuscule things like the pleasing symmetry of Paul and George playing left handed and right handed at the microphone. The four Beatles also each had a different personality type which will have resonated with their fanbase: John the cynic, Paul the optimist, George the introvert, Ringo the clown.

Lennon was clearly a brilliant artist, that brilliance further magnified by the turbulent era in which he came to prominence. By 1980 those powers had waned and the fire of his activism had been replaced by a pleasant enough but inconsequential AOR professionally and life on the school run privately.

Leaving aside (if we can, and perhaps we should not) the horror of his demise, leaving aside the dreadful consequences for his loved ones, leaving aside the wickedness of the perpetrator, Lennon’s myth was preserved forever and sealed in amber that December morning in New York. Mark Chapman and the media made John Lennon a legend. Lennon provided the building blocks.

Most people’s lives end in an ellipsis, but Lennon’s ended with a resounding full stop, and I doubt ultimately in a universe of boundless time a man of Lennon’s intellect and sense of the absurd would have given a damn.



I now know with a degree of certainty my life will end with a hopefully short and sharp chest pain, done away with by a vulgar and unknown virus contracted who knows where or how in the early months of 2012. I am, I tell myself, akin to Tony Stark. Without the money, the fame, the tin suit, or the constant need to fend off nubile lingerie models. f***.

You can blame Wolves versus Huddersfield for that stream of nonsense. I intend now to risk my very life by hoovering the stairs. Pray for me. If I’m not back in a week you’ll know I didn’t make it.

Ive never heard ellipsis used in that context but very clever. May I enquire as you brought it up what was your illegal trade that allowed you to retire early 30s.

 

[Deleted member 1074]

I am left scratching my head as to why as a Premium member I am still getting pop up ads? I should have read the fine print.

Oh God, don’t get me started! Lately, they’ve been almost as incessant and bothersome as Uncleskinny...

 

[evennow]

Oh God, don’t get me started! Lately, they’ve been almost as incessant and bothersome as Uncleskinny...

You should employ Pepper's link above. It works! no pop ups in an hour and it took less than a minute.

 

[evennow]

Oh God, don’t get me started! Lately, they’ve been almost as incessant and bothersome as Uncleskinny...

Yes...from moderator to over modulation. Not sure what the straw was, but the camel's back is broken. Like a switch went off in his head.

 

[Deleted member 1074]

You should employ Pepper's link above. It works! no pop ups in an hour and it took less than a minute.

Woah, woah, woah there. Easy big fella. If I let you sell me on this, the next thing you know I’m gonna be sold on the Teeter Hang Ups or a MyPillow and I can’t just have these things in my life.

 

[evennow]

Woah, woah, woah there. Easy big fella. If I let you sell me on this, the next thing you know I’m gonna be sold on the Teeter Hang Ups or a MyPillow and I can’t just have these things in my life.

But it's free and easy...and who doesn't like that?

 

[Deleted member 1074]

Yes...from moderator to over modulation. Not sure what the straw was, but the camel's back is broken. Like a switch went off in his head.

If he could get to Reggie then he could get to Skinny...clearly it was Ricardo Montalbán.

 

[evennow]

If he could get to Reggie then he could get to Skinny...clearly it was Ricardo Montalbán.

 

[Deleted member 1074]

But it's free and easy...and who doesn't like that?

Me! I don’t like that! I like my Adblockers like I like my women: expensive, ineffective and
w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶a̶ ̶l̶a̶r̶g̶e̶ ̶p̶e̶n̶i̶s̶ a good cook.

 

[Deleted member 1074]

 

[evennow]

Me! I don’t like that! I like my Adblockers like I like my women: expensive, ineffective and with a large penis.

 

[Deleted member 1074]

Whoops. Auto correct.

 

[Peppermint]

Oh Pep hope you're OK mdear. Morrissons should have a special aisle for the infirm. Maybe St John's ambulance could supervise. Seriously did you know that some supermarkets are having special slots for folk with Autism?. Sometimes public are scared to act if they see someone collapse in case they do something WRONG. All supermarkets have defibrillators - was it your heart?

Ive never heard ellipsis used in that context but very clever. May I enquire as you brought it up what was your illegal trade that allowed you to retire early 30s.

Yes, I was longing to ask him that too! Hope he reveals all, I could do with a new income stream. It's a whole body muscle/fatigue thing so it was sort of heart and everything else besides: breathing, walking, speech etc. I think they thought I was drunk because it was so close to Christmas. The fact that I was slurring probably didn't help. A good friend of mine later remarked: 'Oh, God, darling, it never would have happened in Marks and Spencers.' She's probably right, too. The moral of the story: if you must collapse in public, choose your supermarket carefully.