If you’ve just come down from the isle of Skye, bored stupid listening to Andy’s albums and you’ve arrived in the big city desperate to find a job, I’ve got one for you here.
The very dab. It’s paying up to £34,000 for a 35-hour week. That’s more than Lothian Buses are paying their drivers.
Perks? There could be. Check with Edinburgh City Council. You’ll need to have the Gaelic to teach at Gillespie’s High, even though it’s a dead and all but buried lingo.
I’ve no doubt they’ll find you a croft, ideally with a peat-burning fire. Maybe, even, with room in the custom-built bothy for a spinning wheel. No peat? The council have logs galore from the trees they’ve just chopped down to accommodate the trams.
I once gave Skye a go myself for a livelihood, as a goatherd. The teuchters had no gripe with my lederhosen. It was the yodelling that got on their wicks.
Sneezy does it
All to do with the autonomic nervous system. Don’t blame me, I’ve nothing to do with it. Docs in the ear, nose and throat department at an Oxford hospital are linking sneezing with thoughts of sex.
Naughty thoughts? Not my territory, really, But they’ve discovered a bizarre medical condition, this autonomic business, where people sneeze each time they think about sex or have an orgasm.
From now on every time I feel a sneeze coming on, I’ll flee the room. Quick, pass me that box of tissues!
Afterwords . .
. . . Here’s more words of wisdom from George Bernard Shaw and, George, I have to agree wholeheartedly: “A man who has no office to go to – I don’t care who he is – is a trial of which you can have no conception.’’ Unless, of course, the office is littered with berks.