Andy's Glasses

Have you ever met my dad? If you have he will have hugged you. We’ve never been a hand-shakey kind of family. We hug, we kiss, we molest, grope, fondle and stop just a tad short of sexual harassment. It’s our way. So to visit my dad, as I did yesterday, and not hug, kiss, etc, etc, is actually painful. A stark and horrible reminder of the current status quo. Not the ‘Rockin’ all over da World’ one, the other one. So although in this pic (which I love, my dad giving his ‘salute’, albeit with the wrong hand because of a recent dislocation to the shoulder of the correct one) it would appear that we have crossed the ‘2-metre line’, the arbitrary but legally enforceable regulated proximity rule, its all relative. He is my relative. But for us, this is social distancing. Mainly because sound, as all waves, works on the inverse square rule. So at 2 metres away, you get one quarter (inverse the square of 2, ya nob, where the fuck were you in physics???) of the sound you do at the source. And my hearing’s shit and his is way worse. So at 2 metres away he’d have to lip-read. But his sight is worse than his hearing, so it all becomes a matter of balance, of give and take, of win and lose, of cost/benefit.

And there’s the rub. Cost/benefit.

My dad’s been, basically, stuck in his flat for 8 weeks. He’s a very sociable 95 year-old. Normally he’d be out every single day. He has activities. He meets his mates for coffee (which takes approximately 4 hours, Tesco coffee shop just love them taking up 7 tables for that time, nursing one extra-shot soya latte mochachino between 3 of them), he goes to lots of things. He goes to synagogue. Not because he’s religious but because its sociable. Ok, and because he gets whisky too. A win-win. One day he goes over to my brother’s, another he comes over to us, sees the great-grand-kids, where he is in his element.

All reduced to zero by a fucking virus sent by a bat-eating Chinaman.

We all know that ‘the lockdown’ is all about keeping things manageable for the NHS. So illnesses don’t exceed bed/respirator availability. And the ‘cost’ of that is the economy. Which has now officially reached the status of ‘FUBAR’. But there’s other costs. Massive ones.

There’s liberty but only a total nob would raise that argument. Someone like Trump, perhaps, Nigel Farage or every gun-owner in Michigan. Even for those (like MEEEEE) who reckon we should have locked up the old and just adopt a ‘go-for-broke’ paradigm to reach ‘herd immunity’ because then everybody would be safe (well, those still alive) and would have to worry no more.

There’s also sanity. A massive consideration for now and for when we go back to work. And in particular those who don’t make it back to work because its no longer there. And with unemployment comes depression. Sanity.

So my dad decided that next week he’s coming over to the gang for dinner. It’s his choice. We’re all ‘isolating together’ because that’s our choice. And he’ll join us. Because when you’re 95 you’re kind’a not planning for 2021. Or even May the 17th. So why would you forsake a little happiness and enjoyment now for the promise of something ‘better’ when you might not even be here?

Hugging optional. From afar.

Happy… yeah, whatever

A xxxx

Today I turned into my own worst enemy. A (fuuuuuuccckkkkkiiiiinnnngggg) leaf-blower. You know those things. The curse of every suburb. Leafy Britain’s collective wake-up call. WHHHHHRRRRRRRRRR…!!!!! at the crack of 08:00:03 every day from spring to… well back to spring really because there’s always something to blow around the garden to kill half an hour (30 minutes = £12.50, ker-ching) and it sounds like you’re really productive.

But mine is the ‘green’ special. It burns no fossil fuels (directly). No tree-frogs died in its manufacture. It has a zero carbon footprint, and mine is as much carbon as the mud I leave on the floor. If Greta Thunberg blew leaves, this blower is the one she’d use. Though she probably eats them.

It’s electric, you see. Which we ‘decided’ upon for reasons of ecology, sustainability, environment, emissions and that it was much cheaper. Not necessarily in that order. And, unlike every other electric garden tool I’ve left lying in a heap with a severed power cord, it has no blades! Therefore can’t kill me. Like my original hedge trimmer nearly did. The only tragedy is that it is much quieter than its petrol-driven cousin. And I wanted revenge more than I wanted a leaf-free driveway, let the truth be known.

But best of all, or possibly worst of all, (I’ll confirm in due course), this machine sucks and dissects as well as blows. So you blow the leaves into a little pile and then at the turn of a switch you suck them up into a little bag. And in between the leaves get mashed into nothings. Pulped. Blended. Killed. Amazon delivered it in 2 days and I’ve already blown a leaf. Just to try it. Blown and sucked to death. Job done. Can’t wait for fucking autumn.

Whatever happened to ‘herd immunity’? Remember that, in the deep, dark days of about 6 weeks ago, the cunning plan to infect so many people that coronavirus just is no longer a threat. Cos we’d all have had it. Oh, we didn’t go that path. Sweden did and the results are catastrophic. People are lining up… to get their coffees. They’re piling up bodies… in bars and restaurants, generally on seats until its gets too busy. And they’re being blonde. To great effect.

Ok, I know that Boris felt if we went that route ‘people would die!!!’ Which they have anyway, but more importantly, that the NHS couldn’t cope.

So we locked down. And it seems to have worked? But there is no way out of lockdown. Because not enough people have now had the virus to make us safe from the dreaded ‘second wave’. So we’re never going back to school/work/accountancy and we never will. Just… IN CASE!!!!

Happy gardening. Forever.

A xxxx

Suppose a married couple were isolating separately. It can happen. I’m gonna MAKE it happen! He’s living with his 92 year-old mum and she’s with her 108 year-old dad, polishing his WW2 medals, keeping him fed, ahhhh, sweet. And suppose the husband and wife chose to meet up because… for reasons of… intimacy. Would that be wrong?

It’s a crime against Covid 19. It’s a crime against lockdown. But those aren’t really ‘laws’ in any strict sense. Otherwise all those tossers who brush past you on the pavement because they’re looking at their phones and ‘meandering!!!’ (a new crime too) would be serving 18 months in Pentonville. Along with most people who shop in Waitrose. And most cyclists. Just because.

But if a-nother couple choose to hook up, for the same reason, it is basically the same thing. Unless one of them is married to another person. Then it’s still the same Covid crime, but there is now a moral element to it as well. Plus, more people involved. As party number 2, let’s say, is a mother of children and will be taking… bits… of party number one (eeeeuuuuwww) back home with her. Particles. Microbes. VIRUSES!!!

And to be honest, all that would be funny enough, all by itself and on its own. But when that same party number 1 happens to be the head of the entire Coronavirus advisory team (SAGE, as its known), the organisation who made us lock down, who virtually invented ‘social distancing’ in a world where it had previously meant ‘no actual penetration when meeting on the street, everything else is fine’ then it adds hypocrisy to the crimes of Covid-measure-avoidance and shaggin’ a married bird.

Three strikes and you’re generally ‘out’, so Professor Neil Ferguson ‘resigned’, calmly and, I’m sure, with no pressure at all from the Conservative government. Which would normally have distinct moral issues about such things… but its Boris. Whose only ‘moral compass’ lives in his underpants. And when it points north; GET THE FUCK AWAY!!!!

One columnist was concerned in reporting the above matter that the word ‘mistress’ in such a context was discriminatory, prejudicial and anachronistic. Which it emphatically is. Which is why I love to use it. You can offend three lots of people with one horrible, patronising, Victorian word. The reporter bemoaned that there is no male equivalent to the word. Well she’s wrong. The male equivalent is ‘a hotpoint’. Hotpoint fridge-freezer = geezer. Simple. Woss’er problem?

Happy Day 97 since the last count of the first incidence of the second wave of the third lockdown for the second virus.

A xxxx

There was a ‘singer’ in the 60s called Adam Faith. I say ‘singer’ because he couldn’t. What he could do was look very pretty and cool and cause multiple mass screamage in teenage girls. Though anyone with long hair holding a mike in those days produced the same effect. If you doubt his inability to sing, google ‘what do you want’ and play it. Very quietly and with your hand on the STOP!!! button. I’ve just checked and Alexa played it for me. Whereas really all recordings should have been destroyed in human interest.

So he re-invented himself as an actor. Which he wasn’t that great at either, but didn’t need to be. He appeared in a tv series called ‘Budgie’, which was the nick-name of his character. I loved that show. Everyone did, but remember, in 1971 there were seriously limited options available on the 3 tv channels so we were all a little less discerning.

In fact, after that I loved Adam Faith. Who, bizarrely, coincidentally and yet more reincarnatedly, strolled into my practice in about 1988 for some glasses. He was dapper and smart, suited and booted, as he was then working for the Daily Mail (then in Fleet Street) as a stocks and shares pundit/advisor/tipster. And apparently a pretty hot one. And he was a lovely guy. Not quite as Cockney as in his previous 2 lives but charming. Then he died. Shame.

Budgie was an artful dodger of his time. He was a scummy little geezer who ran errands for a big-time gangster. And he was very funny, a bit tragic, often pathetic, but wore ‘fab Carnaby Street gear’ like this horrendous satin jacket. In Soho. Which was gangster central in 70s. Because it was the last central area of London which posh people wouldn’t visit. It was sleazy, grotty, seedy and filled with sex shops, strip clubs, gambling dens, amusement arcades (so you could buy drugs) and even then, a few nice restaurants. For those who liked to dine ‘on the edge’.

And that was the Soho into which I was immersed, aged about 14. In a bespoke tailors shop. Owned by a mate of my dad. In Berwick Street. So as I walked down the road I’d be greeted by half a dozen blow-up sex dolls in shop-windows. All staring at me ‘open-mouthed’ as if in amazement. Then dirty book shops, then closed, darkened windows of brothels, dangly plastic chain curtains of the strip-joints, and then a hand-made, custom-built violin craftsman. What? Yeah. Soho was always about music too. Sex and music. Just round the corner in Old Compton Street was the cafe where every aspiring musician had met up, from the Beatles to the Stones, from the Who to Gerry and the Pacemakers, to find fame.

And as I trundled round, picking up buttons from Beak Street suppliers and fabrics from… errr, fabric places, I was (in my mind) Budgie. Soho was also ‘little Italy’. Where the cafes served ‘real cappucinos’ just like we get them now. Everywhere else in the country served ‘coffee’ by placing a spoonful of Maxwell House in a cup and pouring on water. Only in Soho would Italy’s finest export be enjoyed. I got friendly with the cafe dudes. I chatted with the ‘regulars’, who, it turned out, were mainly prostitutes. What did I know? I was 14 FFS. They were nice. And very friendly. I knew all the strip-joint bouncers by name. I recognised them by their scars.

It was enlightening. I still love Soho, but only through the sepia lens of reminiscence. How many All-Bar-Ones does anywhere really need?

Happy almost pre-post-lockdown Day… ish

A xxxx

I was always pissed off with Jeremy Corbyn (generally and totally) specifically about his constant use of the term ‘working people’. With the implication that unless you’re risking industrial accidents with a lathe or ending the day with a really dirty face, then you’re not a ‘worker’. Like England is some pre-Victorian feudal land segregated by the toffs, who end the day cleaner than they start it, usually because they employ teams of serfs to maintain their cleanliness, or you’re a 9 year-old boy going down the pit from 6 in the morning til 8 at night with a canary for company. Bankers aren’t ‘workers’. Lawyers aren’t workers. Doctors aren’t ‘workers’, but nurses are. Go figure.

As an aside, Corbyn criticised Kier Starmer yesterday, because he’s a tosser and can’t stop himself, to which a Starmer aide replied: “Corbyn has nothing to pass on to the new leader except bad advice, an incompetent team and an 80-seat Tory majority”. I’m liking this new opposition more and more.

Anyway, workers, dirty fingernails, severed fingers, overalls and me.

I’m a worker. I’ve always worked. First ‘Saturday job’ when I was 14, for a tailor in Soho. And Soho in 1970 was not the hipster-foodie cool place it is now. But that really warrants a story to itself (doubtless coming soon). And then I always had jobs. Weekends, holidays and eventually, when I could put it off no longer, a ‘proper job’. And that’s where I’ve been for 40 years (zzzzzzz) until… Coronavirus!!! Gave me the sabbatical I’ve always wanted but no-one’s ever offered to fund. Not that anyone’s funding this one. But now, when I have to go in to work, I actually find myself getting excited. Not, like, ‘Jennifer Lawrence is upstairs waiting for you’, excited, or even ‘Spurs are 4-nil up against Liverpool with 2 minutes to play, we might hang on for a draw!’ excited. But just ‘work!!! I remember!’ exited.

So I went in yesterday. I had to go in to meet the rubbish man. He was coming to pick up the display stand that the burglar had dragged out the hole in the window he’d made with his crow-bar and smashed to bits to get the sunglasses out before the police asked him, politely and calmly, to LIE ON THE FUCKING FLOOR WITH YER HANDS ABOVE YER HEAD AND DON’T FUCKING MOVE A FUCKING MUSCLE!!! Then they kindly brought it back to me. Dragged it back. But I had 3 people to see while I was there, all pre-arranged in a new, virusy, sanitised, mask’n’gloved kind’a way. And I sorted out their broken specs and, for one, his burning need for a new pair of sunglasses, and then I washed, disinfected, sanitised, unmasked, de-frocked, showered in Detol, mainlined Brobat, burned my outer garments and drove home. In my underwear.

And noticed how much busier the roads are now than even 2 weeks ago. Not BUSY like rush hour busy, or even Saturday night going into town busy. Just, much busier than they were at the beginning of ‘lockdown’. Don’t know what that means exactly, but it must mean something.

Happy lawn-mowing Day

A xxxx

My undisputed all-time absolute favourite film ever of all time is a list so long that I ran out of gigabytes trying to write it. Same for songs really, how can anything ever be ‘better’ than Layla? Or, While my guitar gently weeps? Smells like Teen Spirit? Jolene??? Someone like me? Suffragette City? (Etc, etc, etc…) They all push different buttons. Or the same buttons in different ways. I’m not doctor. So I can’t say.

But my favourite car of all time is so much easier. It is this. A 1960 Chevy Corvette. Yes, a little red one, as Prince noted. And yes, the Ferrari this or the Porsche that handles better (probably difficult to ever find anything which handled worse than early American ‘muscle’ cars) or shifted smoother or had triple overhead dangly things which protected drivers from coronavirus but I don’t give a shit. It’s just the prettiest car ever to leave any production line anywhere. Ok, if it was powered by a Nissan Micra engine I might possibly reconsider. But it wasn’t. It had a massive monster engine, as only the Americans can produce.

Massive and monster engines were always needed there because, as anyone who has ever rented a car in the States knows, anything with a ‘normal’ type engine, the sort of engine that makes every car in Europe seem perfectly adequate if not downright perky, will not pull an American vehicle up any hill without unloading baggage and a few passengers first. They just have a brilliant knack of making massive engines with outstandingly minimal performance. “Oh yeah, the 6 litre supercharged V8 will get you to Walmart, long as you don’t buy too much, but if you want to get there and back comfortably you really should look to the 9 litre V16…”

So ‘my’ Corvette came with a ‘mere’ 289 (4.5 litre) V8 engine. With loads of horse power. But the horses were all a bit lame. So the conversion factor has to be applied to account for American horses being so ineffectual compared with Euro ones.

Interestingly, they made bigger engine options from 1959 but didn’t bother improving the brakes til 1960. Hence why I want that one. Not what you call ‘planning’. Conversely, its the fun way. Make the engines bigger, produce a few thousand, then realise (as the death toll increases) that probably the old brakes (taken from a pushbike) were struggling to halt one ton of metal traveling at 120 miles per.

Brakes, engines, performance, horses, phah! Just look at the thing. A testament to chrome, curves and beauty. They didn’t invent ‘wind resistance’ and ‘uplift’ til 1972 so neither were problems the design team needed concern their little heads with.

It’s so gorgeous it deserves a gorgeous driver. Just sayin’. With my birthday not far away, n that…

Happy… happy… happy… Days

A xxxx

Rachie’s gone. Or ‘don’ as Lila says. She went red, turned into half a lobster, recovered pretty damned sharpish, so we slung her out and sent her back to Berlin. We even did the unspeakable, the impossible, the never-ever-in-Conway-land unmentionable and ‘took her to the airport’!!! Just to make sure she really left. We never do airports. It’s just the worst thing ever. The traffic, the crowds, the parking, the waste of time… so Coronavirus actually gave us the solution to every one of those problems. No traffic, no need to park, lots of time and crowds? Crowds??

We didn’t want her to get a cab. They’re driven by disease-ridden ne’er do well rapists. Which is fine in normal circumstances, but THESE AREN’T NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, in case you missed that.

The ‘crowds’ at Heathrow were… missing. No cars. No people. Deserted. Terminal 5 hasn’t been this quiet since the day before it opened. More worrying, no planes. Empty skies all the way.

But the daughter had to return to the Fatherland. Because she has to vacate her flat. And that’s hard from here. Where she arrived on March 10th, just in time for mummy’s birthday, and has been locked out of Germany ever since. Lucky for her. She has to undergo a 2 week ‘quarantine’, enforceable by leather-coated, jack-booted… well, by the police. Stasi. Whatever. And after that she can move. And resume working in yet another different home. Same commute, which is picking up your laptop and pulling it onto the bed with you.

Not the best of times to be on a plane. In an airport. Traveling. But what do you do? Mask up, gloves on and hold your breath for 4 hours.

The round trip to and from Heathrow took 1 hour 15 minutes. In the ‘real world’ it would take 14 hours of hair-pulling, honking, screaming, red-faced swearing (not like Rachie’s one, this one stops at the neck, in which every sinew is stretched to gruesome), parking space-less, move along, can’t leave that ‘ere, mate, total frustration and agony.

Happy just-the-two-of-us Day

A xxxx

What’s the worst thing you can possibly do? Not murder, too obvious and too understandable in the current climate. Train as a ‘hands on healer’? Turn Jihadi? Because although you know nothing about religion or politics, you think you look dead cool in a kefiyah? Become an Arsenal fan?

No. The worst thing you can do is visit a hospital. In ‘normal times’ that is a thing to be avoided (I would say ‘like the plague’ but… but…) whereas now, its tantamount to suicide. If the MRSA don’t kill ya, the coronavirus will. I usually cross to the other side of the street if I walk too close to the Royal Free, but since the pandemic, I cross into a different postal region. Take the 6.2 mile detour. Just in case. No, I’m NOT paranoid. Just… cautious. Pragmatic. Realistic. A tosser.

But that was all ok until we had dinner last night. Then the world turned even a bit more upside down that it has been of late. And it was a wonderful dinner. I’m only sorry now that I didn’t take a photo of it, so you could see how splendid, how wonderful, even how healthy, do the Conways eat in a crisis. Ok, and how much the Conways eat at all times. We had tuna steaks. Ooooh, that’s healthy (so you’d fucking believe). On a bed of rice (best carb you can have, except the ones which are better and if you have a thing about potatoes) and Oriental flavoured (no bat, just plum sauce, soy and powdered rhino horn) stir-fried vegetables. Wonderful. We in fact commented on how the tuna, from a REAL fishmongers, is ‘so much better’ than the stuff you buy… errrr… at the Texaco.

An hour later Rachie was red. Like, all over, red. And hot. And shaking. And hotter. And redder. I was fascinated in that I thought she was turning into a lobster and was looking forward to seeing the claws sprout. Like a human ‘Transformer’. From a scientific perspective. From a parental perspective I was ‘concerned’. We phoned Doctor Auntie for a video consult. Who’s normal response to any crisis (bullet wounds, heart attacks, being impaled on iron railings…) is ‘take a paracetamol and see how it is in the morning’. But who this time said: GO TO THE HOSPITAL! NOW!!

Holy shit. A hospital. Noooooooooo!!! Send me to prison, send me into a fire, send me to Stamford Bridge. But a h-h-hospital!!!

They were (needless to say) brilliant. They were even (needless to say) somewhat aware of coronavirus. So we weren’t allowed to accompany the daughter inside. Instead directed to the waiting room chairs. Which I would have rather eaten than sat upon. We waited outside. As Rachie was seen by Doctor Cousin (Doctor Auntie’s son) and his registrar. Who worked out it was a massive allergic response (we knew that) but antihistamines (which had been taken) were insufficient. So they gave her steroids (and if she tests positive today from our walk SHE WILL BE BANNED AND SHAMED) and after half an hour her heart rate had lowered to near normal and the threat of lobsterisation removed completely. Which was a bit upsetting for me. Probably not for her.

It’s proper name is ‘scombroid food poisoning’. Tuna does it. Even ridiculously expensive tuna, apparently. Mel and I also suffered very minor version for a short period, but Rachie was the full event. She’s such a drama queen.

Happy, healthy, hospital free… EVERY day

A xxxx

I’m worried about Kim Jong-Un. He’s been ‘absent’. Unseen since April 11th and that concerns me. He didn’t come for dinner last night, missed out on our Zoom drinks date on Saturday and sales of Marlborough Reds have declined in North Korea over the past month. All of which is deeply disturbing. His absences are equally unusual. He didn’t attend some army parade or other in Pyongyang, and he loves an army parade. Almost as much as he loves a missile testing, and he missed the last one of those too.

Reports are numerous. And coming from the world’s most secretive and opaque county, most are completely meaningless speculation without any grounding in intelligence or information.

He’s dead! That was in the Mail so for that reason alone it is fairly safe to assume that Kim is alive and well. And probably not reading the Daily Mail.

He’s had major heart surgery. Which is certainly credible as he looks like a heart-attack-waiting-to-happen. Or possibly, did look like that. Now we don’t know. We do know he is, clinically speaking, a fat little fuck, who drinks likes a fish and smokes like a chimney. And one report stated that the surgeon was so nervous he was literally shaking and fucked up the op. Which is almost as believable as Kim being abducted by aliens from Venus. Who you know would have sent him back pretty sharpish. And you kind’a think that if the surgeon had become incapacitated by nerves, he’d have passed on delicate tasks to one of his minions. Not like he would have been operating ‘alone’.

Kim, like all children, has his own train set. In his case, its a real, proper, 1:1 train. 250 metres of it. And it has been spotted by a seaside resort on the east coast. So possibly he went sunbathing. Or paddling. Crabbing. Convalescing.

So many possibilities. Kim is the new Elvis. Everyone knows where he is but no-one’s actually seen him. And if they have, they ain’t tellin’.

Should the esteemed leader really be in an unfortunate confluence of shit and fan, we needn’t worry, as little Sis, Kim Yo-jong, is fit and ready to carry on brother’s good work, making sure that their population remain repressed, impoverished and beaten into submission. That their nation continues to piss off everybody within a 3,000 mile radius and beyond. Because Yo-jong is a proven bitch from the same hell her brother emerged.

We’re thinking of you, Jong-un,

Happy Day before the one after the last one

A xxxx

You see, all those boffins and doctors and biochemists and clever people were never likely to be the solution to this world-wide pandemic crisis. You need someone who can think ‘outside the box’. You need something a little more intuitive, a touch of ‘top down’ reasoning, you just need someone who can look at the ‘bigger picture’ and apply something really total and gestalt.

You need a fucking retard. Unburdened by anything so ephemeral as ‘logic’, sense or knowledge. You need someone who can just put two and two together. And make 9.43recurring. Someone who would look at a fly on dogshit and think ‘hmmmmm, if I ate dogshit maybe I too could fly!!!’ You need someone who, preferably, is bright orange, has silly hair, a fat belly, a tenuous grasp on reality and (possibly, but not essentially) a wife called Melania.

Because The Donald ‘suggested’ (subject now to massive debate) that, because disinfectant kills Coronavirus, and because humans get coronavirus we should consider injecting ourselves with disinfectant. What could be more simple? More straightforward. More logical than that.

The manufacturers of Lysol, America’s go-to disinfectant for over 50 years, immediately issued a statement to the 360 million most litigious people on the planet to the gentle but firm effect of: DON’T FUCKING DO THAT!!! YOU’LL FUCKING DIE!!! Or words to that effect. Also, snorting Vim through a rolled up $20 bill is similarly to be discouraged and drinking the Toilet Duck strictly not recommended.

The comments were not made in general. The POTUS actually directed them straight at the chief medical officer of the entire United States. All 50 of them. But then slightly backtracked stating that he was being sarcastic. Oh, that’s ok then. “I was just joking” is just as good as “it was taken out of context” in terms of political denial.

But he is the fucking president of the United States of America. And, although I despair about it, some people actually listen to what he says. As if it was spoken by God herself. (If 8 year old kids are allowed to change their gender, so is God. He/she can do what… they like). And were probably already loading up their syringes in their sheds.

I’ve said it before and I will definitely have cause to say it again: President Trump is a tosser.

Football’s coming back. We’re going to have SPORT ON THE TELLY!!!!!! The lockdown dream is soon to be a reality. Germany first. Possibly May 9th. For my brother’s birthday. Even though he hates football. And then… the Premiership!!!! Played behind locked doors whilst wearing masks. But that’s got to be better than no football, surely? The only remaining question is: how can fans fight each other whilst respecting social distancing? They’re having a cabinet meeting about that on Tuesday.

Happy Day before Tomorrow

A xxxx