For some time now I have had this terrrrible realisation.
Within the next five to ten years I will suffer an embolism. I will be confined to a Bath chair and only the philanthropy of the Royal Society will keep me from the poorhouse.
Worse, I will be provided with the services of the most beautiful and magnificent woman to care for me. I shall be unable to move, react or speak. I will write notes in a small crabbed hand to her which she will ignore.
Worse, in the course of taking me to the bar and putting a straw in my mouth her magnificent body will brush past me at every opportunity and there will be no way for me to react or cop a feel.
Worse, all this will be plain to her and she will take advantage of me, pretending to listen as I try and whisper in her perfumed ear whereupon she will take the complete opposite meaning quite wilfully.
Worse, she will answer enquiries on my behalf taking care that the answers she gives cause the most consternation.
Worse, she will be punishing me for a lifetime’s slacking and wasting and dissolution. I will deserve it and know in my heart that I deserve it.