‘In a relationship, when does the art of compromise become compromising?’ Thus spoke Carrie Bradshaw. Such knowledge suggests that I have passed her tipping point; my compromises have compromised me. But, then again, one can’t dissent from Robert Louis Stevenson’s view that ‘compromise is the best and cheapest lawyer’, especially when it comes to relationships. There are worse fates than having to do the washing-up occasionally to a backing of unwanted telly.
Yesterday evening, I had hoped to watch highlights of England’s humiliation at the hands of the South African cricket team, but, alas, was forced to settle for Eastenders. Such is life. In fact, Eastenders wasn’t all that bad. It certainly wasn’t dull. An daringly young woman spent the whole episode giving birth in a chippie. No-one thought to trouble the NHS, and the shop manager was happy to banish his customers to accommodate the nativity. This was good business: I didn’t enjoy my fish and chips amid the ear-splitting depiction of labour.
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