Two little matters arise today.
Firstly, I asked Consuela (my Tejana maid) what her opinion of Donald Trump was, as a potential candidate for the Presidency of the United States of America. She having been born in Texas is, of course, entitled to an opinion.
“I would like to set fire to his toupée,” she said, “and then beat it out with a shovel!”
I, on the other hand, not being a citizen of the USA, am not entitled to an opinion, but I gave one anyway.
“It strikes me,” I said, “that as his kind – by which I mean billionaires – secretly run the USA anyway, if not the whole of the world, it makes sense to cut out the middle-man and do away with the idea of having a professional politician in the most powerful political role in the world.”
Consuela walked away muttering. So, no change there, then.
The second matter is something that puzzles me every summer. How the hell to flies know where the back of your head is?