VIEWPOINT
Jeremy Paxman
At the time of life when he should be making a will, our columnist is buoyed by the fact he owns very little – not even Derek the dog
I blame the poached eggs. Or possibly the seasoned yogurt. In any event, it was certainly the consequence of too much brunch. In my dream, we had eaten Turkish eggs, and Jill’s last words to me had been, ‘Please don’t share it with the dog or he’ll have diarrhoea’.
I awoke, troubled by visions of Derek emptying his bowels, while I, bizarrely, mouthed the words of a 19th-century Frenchman. (With a ‘thinks’ bubble, it would make a reasonable cartoon.) There had obviously been a computer malfunction somewhere in my brain leading to this odd clash of Turkish food and French philosophy.