Pink Revolution

Shortly after I got home last week Gaston’s snuffles took a turn for the worse (correlation not causation I hasten to add; it wasn’t me pushing him out into the patio in his underpants when it was snowing). The upshot was that last Saturday he was admitted to hospital. After a brief game of emotional blackmail with Sandie, I came out with the short straw, and so off I went to Gaston’s hospital bedroom, which was painted an intoxicating deep shade of pink, to sleep there on the Saturday and Sunday nights. I now understand even better the idea of authoritarian rulers using the internet and television to placate their downtrodden people because after 48 hours in a colour induced haze, and without any access to the outside world (even mobile phone reception was patchy), I was ready to launch my own Eastern European style “Pink Revolution” and set all of the sick little children free. Thankfully Gaston had returned to near enough full health before I had time to blockade the nurses’ meeting room or piece together some sort of homemade missile, (although those of you who know me and my manual abilities, know that it would probably have taken me a few months to develop any sort of missile that could have even chipped the pink paintwork no less hurt anyone).