The wife

I blame the wife of course. If she had been a little more moderate in her sherry consumption, supplies would have lasted longer and I would not have been out in the streets, late on Monday night, shopping for replacement bottles.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain was pouring down in buckets as I dashed from the liquor store along the street, trying to avoid the larger puddles. Obliged to wear my dark glasses in case anyone recognized me as the famous author of Recollections of a Racketeer, I did not see the lamppost until, running at full speed, I hit it with my face. The dark glasses were smashed to smithereens, my nose was bent flat and I sank slowly, in a daze, into an especially muddy puddle. But that deep seated Irish spirit of determination never left me and I clutched the bottles to my chest, making sure that nothing was broken or spilled.

And that is why, my dear followers, I will not be endorsing that particular brand of dark glasses and why there has been no addition to the blog for the past two days for which I apologize profoundly. But, as I said before, I blame the wife.