Just returning from Geneva, a city of the bespectacled and the bescarfed walkers of small dogs, to Brighton, a city of the befrocked and the defrocked walkers of small dogs.
Toured the Palais Des Nations, Geneva HQ to the UN on Friday. Trod the hallowed turf of conference halls in which 51 nations speak the universal language of fraternity, forsaking their national interests for the good of humanity (I liked to think).
We were told observers from Non-UN members Palestine and the Vatican City would be the regular couple at the back, sitting in on debates, perhaps taking jovial bets on how long it would be would be before their respective domains became of equal acreage.
And although the corridors and halls of power that day appeared empty, I did spot a lone photocopier in the foyer, so something obviously was being done.
My mind had already strayed though. I had progressed from the art deco style of the palace to its anagram, redcoat, and Butlin’s.
Word association is a killer for us setters. Being able to concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time is a problem. Even many of my sentences are commuted, and.
Which reminds me of my favourite limerick.
There was an old man from the sticks,
Who like to compose limericks,
But he failed at the sport,
For he wrote them too short.
I’m penning this from a café in Geneva Airport. Hope everything’s ok at home. I did switch off all the lights before leaving, didn’t I? And I hope I didn’t leave the ….. “garcon…..?”