Leaving Esther to fester…

"Countryfile's gonna cut you up!"

I did a Dolly Parton today (worked 9-5).

There’s something quite weird about our staff toilets: the urinals are ranged in size from midget to giant. I chose the giant size and saw a man- mountain hunched over the child/vertically challenged end one. Trying not to snigger at this inadvertant visual gag, I fled.

On the way home, I got a copy of NME, attracted by the yellow cover and 90s reminiscence (Primal Scream).

I was reading a damning ctitique of the new Brighton Rock remake:

“The overall feel is that of a Sunday night TV drama”

Rock and Chips anyone? The only TV that ever redeemed Sundays was the heady combo of Ski Sunday-Bergerac-Doctor Who (Sylvester McCoy era). I would have my weekly shower (I put the BO in BOY) and come down in time for the ski theme tune, then I would spend the next 2 hours slack jawed and vacant, the thought of school the next day just a cushioned Mallet’s Mallet kind of ache hammering in the background.

"Welcome to a world of academic pain"

What a BBC Radiophonic megamix!!!!

Anyway, back to my journey home…when I looked up I realised the bus had gone way past my stop. I let it take me up to the summit of Banner Cross and trekked over the hill. Psalter Lane looked like a gutted carcass, left as a warning to creative types “Abandon Art All Ye Who Enter Here”

I texted Esther to ask for a cuppa (I’m 2% male chauvinist), but of course that would mean leaving her bed, so instead she wrote about not doing it on Facebook.

“no i’m too lazy to make you a cup of tea, you’ll have to make one yourself, even though you’ve been at work all day. can i have one too”

Even capitals are too much effort. That’s my gal.

When I bring our cups of tea up to the bedroom, Esther is cutting her nails.

“There’s not just cheese in here, it’s nutty too” she says as I enter.

I turn away in revulsion, and flip open the laptop.

“stop writing it in your fucking blog” she yells as I start to tap away.

When she realises that I am going to write down everything she says, she clams up. Finally.

"If I stay here long enough, she'll make the tea..."

Bustard Child

I am very excited. We will soon be able to *almost* swear in public for legitimate reasons- the Great Bustard is being re-introduced into Britain. Unlike most of the uncouth youth, I am deeply embarrassed when naughty words escape my mouth. I accidentally shouted “You fucking shitstained cunt” at a pregnant woman the other day when she made me giver her my seat. Now I will be able to spit expletives and not fel guilty.

The bird itself looks pretty stupid, I can see why they all got butchered. Looks like Pat Butcher to me.

"Yes I frickin' do!"

"Ere. who you calling a bustard" etc

I had a terrible dream last night. My mum sent me her head in a box, I presume as an ornament of some sort. I opened it and my initial joy was replaced by dread. “But you can’t have a spare head” I said to Esther in horror. Next scene- at my parents house. I am sick with grief. “Where is she?” I ask my dad shakily.

“In the loft” he points up to the top of the house. That’s where her body is stashed, with the dank papers and dust laden webs.

I start to sob. It;s one of those dreams where you wake up and you’ve been crying in real life.

I should have rung her today to check it wasn’t true. I presume dad would have let me know at some point if it was.

"Dear Mother, as promised 'how to get ahead in the music biz'. Yours, Thom"

Just had a phonecall from BBC’s Who Do You Think You Are. Apparently, their research shows that I am not the God of Hellfire, as I had previously thought. I must have ice cream.

"I Know Who I Aren't. Thanks for nothing"