Love. And bacon.

I’ve got myself into trouble again. I wrote a poem the other day about bank queues. It was silly. My wife saw it, and instead of smiling because it was silly, she decided that I was not nearly romantic enough, and would be writing her a love poem. I can’t do that. You see, I do not love my wife.

They say that the Eskimos have over a hundred different words for snow. I love the idea, and was devastated the other day to learn that they don’t. They have one.

Snow. Just snow.