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Sitting On’t Roof

September 9, 2011

Like this, but less Jewish.

Reviews of Tings is besotted; make no mistake. For as long as Bobby Billington continues to produce generally below-parr baked goods and rely on his dimples and astonishing eyes to progress through the Great British Bake Off, RoT’s prolificacy is going to be severely hampered. And yet, there seem to be hours in the day when RoT somehow isn’t watching GBBO. In these morose, self-indulgent hours, RoT likes to sit on the roof. And this, despite an horrific incident in RoT’s shady past. It was a summer afternoon in the school holidays, hot and still, the grass fried to a crisp yellow. The little spoken-of Grandad Ting had decided to ascend the roof of a newly-constructed garden shed, for reasons still unknown. As ever, getting down from these things is harder than the joyous climb, and Grandad Ting had decided to use a metal wheelbarrow to aid his descent. Mistake. Placing his weight on one side of the wheelbarrow caused the other to flip up, hammering into his shins. RoT has never seen so much blood, and Grandad Ting couldn’t walk for weeks. If RoT could speak to its Grandad now (he’s dead), then Grandad would tell RoT that his splintered shins were worth it: that sitting on a roof is one of the tiny slivers of joy one can gobble from the shit-pie of life. Little else will reward a person with the same sense of rebellious freedom as sitting on a roof. You’re higher than anyone else. Higher, even, than the authorities will permit you to be. Thing is, this needs to be kept a secret, or the riffraff will find out about roof-sitting, and ruin it for the rest of us.

Verdict: listen to some music; read a book; pound a few bottles of 3for£10 chardonnay or just lie back and look at the clouds. It’s the best, promise.


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