And yet there is no sign….
And yet we still wait….
There is no sign of all the dreams we once had ever coming to fruition, especially those mainly concerning personable young ladies and/or gentlemen with a keen interest in the more exotic acts of a carnal nature who are more than eager to involve our very selves in their experiments and activities.
That urgent last-minute phone call begging us to come and play centre forward in the FA cup final, or make up the numbers in the national squad for the World Cup still hasn't happened, despite the number of times we check the answering machine.
Surprisingly enough nor has Mr Clapton made that phone call imploring us to come and help him out at his Albert Hall gigs, despite us only ever managing to never get more than 12 Pages into Bert Weedon's Play With Yourself Every Day course. Nor have we had that imploring letter from Berlin saying that Sir Simon is down with a cold and could we nip over there a bit pronto (bring your own baton).
No matter how many times we consider getting ourselves on the books of a theatrical agent - just in case - we still haven't heard from the film star of all our fantasies and late-night hand-assisted musings, informing us about their desire to have us star alongside them in their next blockbuster film. A film, apparently, featuring the most explicit sex scenes ever witnessed in a mainstream motion picture release.
The long silence from the Booker prize judges is also ominous. As is the lack of contact from the Nobel committee and those responsible for formulating the Queen's Birthday and New Year lists of those deserving honour and recognition.
Perhaps, though, it is all about to happen.
After all, the postman still hasn't been today.
Even then, there will always be a tomorrow… at least right up to the day when there isn't.
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