Bob—my minion, courtesy of my husband—is a symbol of my excesses:
Too much chocolate and champagne: I, like Bob, am a candidate for the cakewalk rather than the catwalk.
Too much grieving: my father, who was affectionately called Bob (not his real name) by our extended family, died 13 years ago, but his ghost still looms at dawn.
Too strange a sense of humour: dark, subversive, and sometimes toilet.
And now I’m laughing too long and too loud.
Have a silly weekend.
For more entries to this week’s WPC, see The Daily Post.