Is there a doctor in the house, no it’s only me and I’m chef and I have
burned my hand, frying fish. Once I was asked by a stewardess if I was
a doctor, one of her charges had taken ill. I was flattered and took my
ladle and pots out. What is his profession, I asked, he is a historian,
I made him an ancient omelet; the historian recovered. In Milan, a call
to the audience: Is there a tenor in the house, our tenor has expired,
no one put a hand up; I did and killed the Figaro drivel once and for all.
Once, a train conductor let me wave a green flag and blow the whistle,
the train left without me, which was a pain, my wife and suitcases were
onboard. It was a slow train to Porto, took a taxi to the next station and
boarded the train as my wife left having had enough of my quest for
recognition. It is all about fame if you lack it, you are fu*ked, reduced
to writing poetry no one reads in humble internet sites, in the hope of
reaching a reader who is as lonely as you are.
