Xi may be the face I can't forget A trace of pleasure or regret May be my treasure or The price I have to pay Xi may be the song that summer sings May be the chill that autumn brings May be a hundred different things Within the measure of a day Xi may be the beauty or the beast May be the famine or the feast May turn each day into a heaven Or a hell Xi may be the mirror of my dream A smile reflected in a stream Xi may not be what he may seem Inside his shell Xi who always seems so happy in a crowd Whose eyes can be so private and so proud No-one’s allowed to see them When they cry Xi may be the love that cannot hope to last May come to me from shadows of the past That I remember 'Till the day I die Xi may be the reason I survive The why and wherefore I’m alive The one I’ll care for Through the rough and rainy years Me, I’ll take his laughter and his tears And make them all my souvenirs For where she goes I’ve got to be The saviour of my life is Xi Xi, Xi (with apologies to the Estates of Herbert Kretzmer & Charles Aznavour)
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It’s that time of year – blue skies, daffodils, strikes, snowdrifts and a new tax year. Here are the signs that tell you that spring is nearly here:
You’ve tried the mower and it didn’t start. You dimly remember putting it away broken in the autumn.
People on picket lines are wearing shorts and t-shirts, and look quite well tanned.
The shops are full of sandals, swimming cozzies and suncream.
The Daily Express enters its seventh consecutive month of Snowpocalypse headlines.
The price of Creme Eggs has gone up again. And they still don’t taste right.
You are heartily sick of reading newspaper articles about slimming, dieting and weight loss
You’ve received next year’s Council Tax bill and had to sit down to get your breath back.
You’ve bought lots of vegetable seeds to save on the food bill, but you will never plant them. This is an annual ritual.
Your partner is suddenly and unaccountably keen on you repainting or redecorating something in the house or garden. Never the car or the motorbike. Always the house or the garden.
There’s been a budget and you are worse off, again. HMRC has sent you at least six letters in brown envelopes about your tax code. Each one caused heart murmurs.
Something is threatening to bugger up the summer GCSE exams. It could be teachers, a pandemic, government incompetence, leaked papers, bolshie kids, Greta Thunberg. Something, anyway.
Family members have started opening windows again, with scant regard for the energy bill.
Broadcasters have run out of good programmes and are sneaking in more and more repeats. You regret cancelling all those expensive streaming services.
Extensive internet searches fail to reveal any holidays on dates that you want and/or that are within your budget.
Next door’s cat has started coming into your garden again, to take advantage of your lawn.
Your GP is offering appointments 2 to 3 months ahead, instead of 5 to 6, although the answerphone message is still going on about ‘winter pressures’.
Political scandals are reported from outside Number 10 in daylight, rather than total darkness.
Although you took out a gym membership in January, you stopped going long ago. And you are absolutely fine with that.
After a long, cold and dismal winter, you have lost the ability to count to ten.
Image: shell_ghostcage | Pixabay
Updated: Dec 2, 2023
Episode 23: Flavoured poison, Spy balloons and Lion Jizz
Comedy news from NewsBiscuit
Featuring Guests: Ian Searle, Dan Sweryt, Tim & Sketchly
Host: Wrenfoe. Feb-March 2023
http://www.newsbiscuit.com/
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