Saturday 10th July
It’s time for breakfast. I go down and let the dog out and pour cat biscuits into her and the cat’s bowl. Then I make a cup of tea and bring breakfast up to the bedroom.
This is Esther’s queue to get up and sit on the toilet. There’s a low, queer rasping sound.
“Oops. My bumhole’s still asleep” she titters to herself.
This is another example of the strange world of Esther, where the laws of science and common sense are warped into their own donkey logic, which she digs her heels into and will not budge from.
Here are a few of her stock phrases:
“My legs are full of bood” (her standard moan when it’s her time of the month)
“Carole Caplan says…” (when she wishes to express some universal truth, as proclaimed by Cherie Blair’s former life guru)
“It’s liver downtime” (so no-one can challenge her when it’s time for a snooze)
“I’ve gone sugar-blind” (after eating too many sweets. Usually used to express why she can’t do something important)
“I’m paralysed” (this is why she can never make us a cup of tea straight after a snooze)
“Are their parents still together?” (this question is the first in a series that allow her to completely analyze and deconstruct someone’s identity)
Last night, Esther fixed her glasses, which had broken in two because she is incapable of looking after her things. But what she didn’t tell me till this morning was that having superglued the two halves together, she put them on and realised they were now glued to her face. While I was downstairs letting the dog out, she was having a tug of war to rip the plastic frames from her nose. Knowing I would be angry at her carelessness, she heard me returning and yanked them off and sat there as if nothing had happened.
Having told me this, she’s now doing her facial exercises. This is the first time I’ve seen them. She looks like an old woman with no teeth, or a gurn champion.
Sunday 11th July
Today our anti-social dog walk in the park is interrupted by a bunch of dirty hippies laying around listening to ambient house, a zombie genre that can never die, and merely mills around aimlessly, never really going anywhere. If we let Devo off now, he would return within seconds with a mixture of blood, dribble and food on his face having licked, nipped and nibbled each and every lolling hippy. That would have put some life into them! The lethargy is contagious. Back at home, we snooze 3 to a bed, before sitting around the kitchen in a stupor. Dane sends me a link to Santana performing Soul Sacrifice on Youtube. He is a dirty hippy too. They are everywhere.
Dom arrives and says “turn it up”. Esther bites back, “turn it down”. After a while, Lisa’s littlest-sister voice pipes up.
“How small would the band have to be to sound this loud?” asks Lisa seriously.
Dom takes a second to answer “That makes no sense at all”
“You know, if the band could only be as loud as this computer, how miniature would the people and their instruments have to be?”
“Shut the fuck up” says Dom.
It’s time to let the dog out, and I often like to sing my own version of the Baha Men classic:
“Who let the dogs out?