Questions, questions, questions!
There are so many these days that nobody knows the answers to.
Certain questions niggle away at my brain. Perhaps, you might share some of them with me?
Questions like…can vegetarians bring home the bacon or have a beef with someone?
Questions like…if a vicar developed a large boil on his neck, could it be described as a religious gathering?
Questions like…if milk, butter and cheese are bad for us, why aren’t the fields full of cows having heart attacks?
Questions like…who was the TV executive with such a low opinion of the great British public, he/she created “The Masked Singer” and dumped it on us without one word of apology?
Be fair, even when the singers take their masks off, it’s not that easy to work out who they are. The show would work just as well if they got rid of the masks, walked on stage and simply asked “Hello folks! Any idea who I am?”
And questions like…why did the Met Office come up with the ridiculous idea to give male and female names to storms?
There’s absolutely no point. You can’t send a birthday card, text or e-mail to a storm. Well you could, but you’d soon be visited by the men in white coats – or be given your own series on ITVBe.
Strong gales, dark skies and continuous, miserable, lashing rain make up a storm and are natural phenomena which Mother Nature didn’t see any point in calling, for example, ‘Cledwyn’. By the way, why does the Met Office only name bad weather?
See what I mean about there being so many questions?
We never hear Carol Kirkwood, Derek Brockway or any of the other 250 weather forecasters who pop up every 15 minutes on the rolling news channels with a cherry grin on their face tell us… ”Next week Britain will be visited by a warm gentle breeze coming up from the Azores that we’re calling ‘Angelica’ … followed by a long period of sunshine that we’ve christened “Princess Fairy Belle”.
But it’s only a matter of time until they do!