A bit depressed

I sit here, looking out my attic window, a curtain of rain blurring the colours of the trees and rooftops in the valley below.
Yes, I am sleeping in the attic. I have let Hector have my bedroom. I know I said I wouldn't but he dropped a bombshell at dinner last night: he's left Patricia. I said, but why? you have been married for 40 years. He said, that's just it - 40 years! I said to her (Pat, that is) "You've had 40 years of my life." She replied, "Well, you have had 40 years of mine" I said, "Exactly - don't you think we should call it quits?" And without waiting for an answer I picked up my car keys and walked out.
There was dead silence around the dining table - except for the lesbian, who farted suddenly. I felt sorry for old Hector, so I let him have my room. I know I shall regret it.
They have all gone out for the day. I said they could take my car. Well, I am still feeling a bit iffy, what with the IBS and the menthol stuff as well. But I do feel a bit 'left out' if you know what I mean.
I can see the council estate from up here, and, if I re-focus the field-glasses... yes the orange and blue curtains of Carol's bedroom. How well I remember that room, I........ oh she's just opened the curtains.

Excuse me but there is something I have to do.

From the throne room

Now listen here, Montcrief, you whinging Gallic symbol – If you bought my book I will eat my hat (a particularly hairy Harris-Tweed – with a feather). Stolen, more like. You are well known to the security staff at Waterstones, Borders and Barnes & Noble.
Still sponging off my sister, I see. I don’t know why Erica did not chuck you out years ago. Then you could have gone back home and voted ‘Non’ in your silly referendum. You didn’t vote ‘Non’ back in 1940, did you?

Well, I feel better having got that off my chest. Actually, I do not feel all that good: the old IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) is back. And I am typing this on my laptop, sitting on the lavatory.
I don’t know what causes it. A gastro-enterologist) told me that I had a bowel like a greyhound. Some folk, he said, have a bowel like a bulldog: it just squats there. Others, like myself, have a bowel like a greyhound: all twitchy and raring to go. And boy, have I ‘been’.

Of course, I get no sympathy from the lesbian. Strangely though, the Swedish tart seemed a bit concerned. She came down into the kitchen at 2 am., humming The Beatles' tune ' Norwegian Wood' – that girl’s got an identity crisis - when I was having a drop of brandy. Said she couldn’t sleep, and got a glass of milk out of the fridge to take two Ibuprofen. Anyway she sat by me at the kitchen table and we talked for half an hour. She was quite sympathetic, and I started to fancy her again. But what with the bowel playing up, and everything, I thought I had better leave it for the moment. Still, the omens are good.

I must have a lie down

Important announcement

I have decided to make my autobiography, ‘The Boy’s Story’, available to a wider audience by serialising it on the ‘net’. The idea came to me this afternoon after a cycle ride around the village. I called at Old Mother Shipford’s Tea Rooms (at the back of the Off-Licence) for a pot of Earl Grey and one of her special mushroom omelettes. It refreshed me no end.
She tells everyone that she comes from a long line of witches. Apparently, her great grandmother had a ducking-stool named after her.
How she manages to keep her licence to sell ‘wines and spirits’ I do not know. Rumour has it that she is ‘very friendly’ with Squire Trawlerany, Chairman of the Local Magistrates - Say no more.
But I digress. I shall be setting up a web-site shortly and publishing the address here on this ‘blog’.
Watch this space.

Bank Holiday

My brother, Hector, telephoned and asked if he could come over for the holiday. I was not too keen - I mean, we are not exactly close. He used to go out with the lesbian before me. In fact is was through Hector that I met her. He dumped her and she rebounded into me.
Of course she said she only went out with him because he had a motor bike - and I, like the fool I am, believed her.
Eight months later, Eric was born. Note that: eight months. She said he was premature but I am sure he is Hector's son; he even looks like him. Of course I brought him up as my own; that is until he joined the Air Force as a 'boy entrant'. Done well for himself though: he's a sergeant cook, stationed in Wiltshire. We never see him.

Needless to say, the lesbian is delighted Hector is visiting. She wants us all (including the Swedish tart) to go to an exhibition of 'Feminist Art' - whatever that is - says it will be a way to really get to know one another again: bond - I hate that expression.

I don't know where he's going to sleep - Hector. He's not having my bed. The lesbian says he can doss on the futon in her room. Fine by me. If he thinks he's on a good thing there, he's in for a shock. He doesn't know about her switching tracks, so to speak.

Anyway, I'm off down the pub for lunch.

My brain is hurting

Been down the psychiatric out-patients. I got a bit depressed what with all the goings-on.
The psychiatrist, a Mr Singh (nice chap - for a foreigner) told me not to worry; that my behaviour was a sane reaction to an insane situation.
He has prescribed Prozac, which I have been taking in the minimul dosage - and in the morning. He also recommended that I take a holiday.
I said, what, you mean like to Gt Yarmouth? (that's where we used to go when I was little).
He said no, somewhere further afield: new sights, new sounds, new smells, new people.
I said, like Jersey or Guernsey then.
No, he expostulated, have you not thought about crossing the ocean? Going to visit new lands?
He's got something there, I thought. So I forced open the lesbian's filing cabinet and retrieved my passport. (she confiscated it after that regrettable trip to Bangkok - while I still in the clinic).
Anyway I have got my Readers Digest Big Atlas out in front of me, so I will let you know how I get on.

no title

"...a tale/Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,/Signifying nothing."

an interim period

It's quiet here at the moment. The lull before the storm in a teacup - as my old mum used to say. She had some great sayings: the world is your lobster; if it weren't for your dad; don't let me hear that word again.

The Swedish tart stays in her bedroom playing 'Bjork' at full blast. Says it reminds her of her beloved country. I said to her: You silly Swedish tart, Bjork is from Iceland. She swore at me in Spanish. Now what's all that about!

Syd's disappeared again. I'm not worrying though. I've realised that I have more to do with my life than worry about people. Who was it who said that you should go through life with Death sitting on your shoulder. That way you will make the most of it. (Life, not death)

The lesbian has started picking her nose again - at the dinner table. I ask you. I have complained of course, but she says if I don't like it I can eat in the garage. I think I might, at that - when the weather gets a little warmer.

You know, I deserve more out of life that this. I mean all I want is for everybody to be happy - everybody. And yet I seem to attract nothing but aggravation. Where am I going wrong? Can anyone tell me?

Yours in bewilderment

George

Early morning thoughts

The lesbian says I should see a psychotherapist. Just because I came down to breakfast and remarked that I felt menaced by the tea-pot. It is a particularly large one, given to us as a wedding present by her mother.
I am not going of course. I agree with Sam Goldwyn: Anyone who visits a psychotherapist needs his head examining.

They have got a new condom machine in the toilets at the 'Jolly Pervert'. You have a choice of 4 - one of them being labelled "extra safe". And the thought crossed my mind: does that mean that the others are less safe?
I said to old whatsname - the landlady who chucked me out that time - that really the others should be labelled too. For example, "Fairly Safe", "A Bit Risky" and "You're Taking A Chance". Something like that.
She gave me that withering stare, for which she is famous - along with her dumplings, of course.

Isn't life a bugger, sometimes.

George

A father's worries

I walked into the kitchen this morning to hear my son and heir singing:

"My baby done wrote me a letter -
Said she couldn't live without me no more"

I immediately gave him a lecture on the mis-use of the 'double negative'.
He responded with, "You don't know nothin".

It appears that some professor from the University of East Anglia has come out with the idea that the 'double negative' is quite acceptable as it "adds emphasis".

I told Sydney that I had not spent all that money on his education for to be hearing him mangling the Queen's English, like as he was doing now.
He just sniggered.
I left the room.

Wait a minute! Now I remember, he was actually holding a letter in his hand at the time. Don't tell me he has got back with that trolloppy single mum from the council estate. Where did I go wrong?

By the way, the lesbian has joined a feminist group. She was going on about the "barbarous practice of female circumcision" which is apparently still practiced in some parts of the world.
I asked her what this was all about, and she replied that it was to ensure that the women did not get pleasure from sex.
I was surprised, and remarked that all the women I knew did not get pleasure from sex.
She sniggered.
I left the room.

Yours in puzzlement

George

A fiscal upturn

Great news: received the cheque from the insurance company today. The question now is - what shall I do with the money?

I wasn't going to tell the lesbian but she picked up the post and recognised the envelope. Well, she is getting none of it. She says she wants a new kitchen. I said to her: you cook everything in the bloody microwave (or should I say, heat it up) and you want a new kitchen! If it weren't for the pub lunches I'd starve.

Oh, guess who turned up yesterday, large as life - the Swedish tart! The nerve of it. I was going to send her straight packing. Then she produced the snaps! Seems she still has the negatives.

She's in the attic.