Death of Wristy Bandy


I don’t wear jewellery, no necklaces, rings, never had my ears pierced and I doubt very much I’ll take up the habit  of pinning jewel encrusted lizards or skulls on my extensive new polo neck collection when I reach 55. But I do wear wrist bands. Leather ones. And my favourite one died yesterday, well and truly beyond super glue repair.

This thing has been in my life for as long as I can remember. Well no, longer, because I can’t actually remember that far back these days. Strangely enough a friend got it for me at this little dinner theater place in Melbourne which does dracula/horror/”comedy”  themed gigs. Ohhhh bless. I kind of like that it started life in show biz.

Wristy Bandy was on my arm pretty much every day for the next bazillion years. Anyone who has ever met me on a day hot enough to roll up my sleeve will have seen it. So not too many in the UK then. It’s travelled the world with me, gone to work with me, partied with me and made some people wonder if I stole it from a cat or had a matching choker and accoutrements at home. Yeah good onya fellas. Hilarious.

So good bye Wristy Bandy. My morning routine will never be the same without you. It will however be ever so slightly quicker.

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