Yesterday, on my way to the park with the dogs, I passed a woman in tight jeans bent over a child in a buggy.
She set off this train of thought.
Wow, she’s too skinny. What was the line from that movie, years ago, you know, the one where Harrison Ford calls Sigourney Weaver a skinny assed bitch or something? It wasn’t Nine to Five, that was Dolly Parton. Working Girl? But wouldn’t that mean a prostitute? Working Woman? Work Place? No. Oh come on, it had that other actress in it, Michelle? No, Melanie. Yes, Melanie something. Philips? No, wasn’t Melanie Phillips the druggy daughter of…some rock and roll type, was it one of Peter Paul and Mary? No wait, not Melanie. Mackenzie? Wasn’t she a druggie because of some weird relationship with her father? Incest? Not her, anyway, the Melanie married to that Spanish actor, the one who isn’t Javier Bardem. Anyway, isn’t Javier Bardem going out with the actress from the Woody Allen film they starred in together, oh, you know, the gorgeous one? Where was I? Oh yes, the other Spanish actor, the one who stuck with Melanie whatever even after her plastic surgery went wrong, or was it that she got fat? Antonio something. Maybe it was Working Girl?
By the time I caught myself in the middle of this train of thought, I had reached the park and felt thoroughly sickened at a. the state of my memory and b. the contents of my brain. It would be less appalling if I could remember the details of more important things. But I’m afraid this is pretty typical of my internal monologues.
I do, however, definitely know the name of the Foreign Secretary. That’s easy. William Hague. Or is it Ian Duncan Smith? I always get those two mixed up.