Theme Tunes

A predictably entertaining evening with The Waunch and mrs househusbandnot on Friday night, including discussion of what three songs we would have played at our respective funerals. As The Waunch was muttering darkly into his scotch about an Otis Redding song that summed up his life, mrs hhn - who, unknown to me or her, was about to spend a good part of the weekend nursing me with bad man flu - came up with Strange Relationship by Prince. Good choice. Quirky, ironic - what a funeral needs really. All I could think of was Discreet Music because it lasts 30 odd minutes, and I thought that would be long enough for you all to have a big old weep about me.

Mind you, last time mrs hhn and I discussed tunes was the closest we ever got to leaving each other, well her leaving me. We foolishly decided to do our own music at our wedding, and we got all the songs together and mixed them up which took weeks, and then the night before the future mrs hhn went off to prepare becoming the future mrs hhn I pressed the wrong button on itunes and rearranged all our chosen songs by length rather than as the groovy mix that we had put together. (We don't really talk about that evening very often round hhn HQ. It was a dark one, saved - only just - by the love of a good woman.)

Anyway, all sounds a bit serious for a Monday morning. In other news, was sitting having my morning coffee in Russell Square this morning when a really respectable middle aged woman walked past me and went into a trot into a flock of pigeons. She must hate or love those nasty birds. Very entertaining. She looked very happy with the bird chaos she had created.

I notice btw no suggestions for how to do a campaign without a budget. Come on people.

In final snore-worthy news, Wimbledon starts today. As someone was just saying here in the office, this event epitomises the really snobby side of England, and also that vain hope/fantasy that a Brit will ever win this event ever again. Is Andy Murray fit to play? Who cares? He is just the latest in a long long (looooooong) list of fairly pointless British men who feel they have some right to the Wimbledon title despite being about as competitive and aggressive enough to actually win it as a lazy Koi Carp.