They think I don’t know. I do, though. This crotchety, curmudgeonly old cove who coories in the corner at his desk – hub of the universe – is not quite the full shilling.
Do I care? I reciprocate by reminding myself that most of the workplace colleagues surrounding me are a bit barmy. One of the prerequisites in newspapers. Younger of course. Been nowhere. Done nothing. No fit to wear the T-shirt.
It’s a rant, not a wrap. How scathing can you get, Gibson? Don’t get me started. Tell you this, friends. Given to perambulating along Princes Street de temps en temps (they taught French at Leith Academy, and a sprinkling of the words survive in the noddle) and the other day there was a chap with his accordion squeezing a torrent of well-known tangos out of the instrument. Busking between Primark and The Body Shop.
Tempted, so I was, to drop everything and tango on the street’s concrete floor but not as nimble and twinkle toed as I used to be. This bloke was by far the most talented busker I’ve heard on this thoroughfare. The others are, for want of a better never bandied about in Leith Academy’s vocabulary, utter mince.
Afterwords . . .
. . . and it’s sulky Victoria Beckham talking trying to forget the Spice Girls: “It could have been a lot worse. I don’t have a single stint in rehab to my name. Someone said to me once, LA (where she lives today) is like a giant rehab centre for celebs. It’s so far away from everything that people leave you alone.”