Tonight I went to see the regular Monday Club show at the Museum of Comedy in London. I had been telling comic Siân Doughty it was an excellent place to see good acts trying out new material. She went to check it out.
Afterwards, she mentioned to me: “There was a report on the radio that the oldest man in the world has died again.”
“Again?” I asked and then realised that, of course, the oldest man in the world is forever dying.
On my train back home, I met a neighbour who told me he had heard a radio programme about exoplanets and had to look up what an exoplanet is. (I didn’t know either.)
The programme pointed out, he told me, that our Moon has no name.
Loads of other planets have moons, some with names, some without.
Ours is just another moon – one of gazillions – but it has no specific name.
I had never thought about this before.
I have a cold, but that is no excuse.
I felt cheated when I got home because I felt a third quirky insight should have been visited on me. The Rule of Three had been broken.
I will sleep uneasily tonight.