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