I have a worst friend. His name is Co-Pilot. He is forever following me around, getting in the way, like a boastful six year old. When I turn around, he’s there at my back, wearing his child’s co-pilot outfit, some plastic uniform with shiny buttons and bold reds and blues just out of its wrapping. He probably unwraps a new one every morning just before I get up. He has drawn a thin pencil line moustache on his upper lip to imitate some real pilot but he is only six. Who is he kidding? He has a friend, more obnoxious than he is, if that were possible. He calls him his buddy. Buddy, my arse! His name is Grammarly. Grammarly will not let me be. He is forever picking me up on things, telling me he knows best. Grammarly is similarly about six, one of those know-it-all six year olds. He knows best, he keeps repeating. Where did he get these trite certainties from? Grammarly wears a kind of Little Lord Fauntleroy suit with shiny shoes and forever sports what he probably calls a winning smile and I call an obsequious rictus. Can’t somebody get these two individuals out of my life? I never invited them into it. What I plan to do is take them by the scruff of the neck, one in each hand, and march them out to the back of the house where I keep the old coal shed. I’ll throw them in there like an evil Dickensian patriarch. Good Riddance to the pair of them. I know I’m not supposed to do that with these shiny bright six year olds, but frankly I’m past caring.

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