I always thought it was socially acceptable to mop up gravy with a piece of bread, but apparently it has to be “your plate” and you have to “have clothes on”.
Age 8: Flinging myself off the swings at high speed onto a concrete floor, bouncing up instantly and laughing before bounding away like a gazelle.
Age 48: Raising my eyebrows in a slightly more robust way than usual and fracturing my skull.
I was going to suggest a “moot” button for Twitter, but there doesn’t seem much point now.
That rare moment when you wake up actually feeling ok, then catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror looking like a kidnapped shed.
I’m sure there’ll be some making distasteful jokes about Williams’ death. How annoying for them that he would have thought of funnier ones.