Saturday 20th February 2016
Hello, Peeps and Peepettes,
Yes, ‘tis I, the houseboy, popping in with some news and views. And about time, you lazy bastard, I hear you cry. Calm down, calm down. I’m here now. I’d like to thank all of you who have mailed in recent times, and especially those who sent kind Valentines greetings. It’s nice to know some folk retain a sense of the romantic. The same sentiments back to you all with knobs on, or without knobs, according to taste and as you prefer.
Where the hell did January go, eh? One minute it seemed to be competing to be the longest month in recorded history and the next it had vanished.
So far 2016 is gearing up for a mention in the Guinness Book of Records as the year of celebrity deaths. Poor old radio Tel (Terry Wogan) has joined the ranks, novelist Harper Lee has gone and it looks like TV magician Paul Daniels is next on the 2016 celebrity hit list. The poor guy has a terminal brain tumour.
Bloody hell, if I was a celebrity I’d be hot tailing it down to the doctors for an urgent M.O.T.
So what have I been up to, what adventures have I had since last I journaled? None that would give Indiana Jones a run for his money that’s for sure, but never mind. Life for most of us is comprised of small events. I’ve been occupied with this, that and the other, not all of it pleasant, but such is life.
I’ve had a bit of a sort out, getting rid of some clutter. The de-cluttering wasn’t voluntary as such. It was on Daddy Shane’s orders, as he claimed the quasi mansion was beginning to look like, and I quote, ‘a fucking scout’s jumble sale.’ So, I packed up books, CD’s, DVD’s, games, gadgets and other paraphernalia and passed them on to a variety of charity shops for re-sale. Daddy was happy again. In fact for a wild moment I thought he was going to crack a smile, but it turned out to be just wind.
I sashayed my cute arse down town yesterday afternoon, seeing as it was a nice day and the urge to splash cash was consuming me. The town stank, literally. There was some problem going on with the drains. It reeked from one end of the high street to the other. The aroma was so heavy and pungent you could almost taste it. Yuk! It was like going in the bathroom after Dick has been in for his morning constitutional. He’s a lovely, lovely man, but boy does his shit stink. It’s enough to shrivel your nasal hair.
Anyway, I spent some dosh and then went for a bit of nosh and a coffee at my fave Costa coffee emporium. I’m really into their flat white at the moment. There was a new barista on the block, a young slip of a lass who looked like she was on day release from primary school. It was clear she didn’t want to be there, it was not her career of choice. She did not give a flying fuck. Honestly, she took indifference to a whole new level. It was impressive in its way. She made every customer feel like they were impinging on her time. A couple of them apologised for bothering her. I can’t see her lasting. On the other hand she might well be promoted to manager.
After my outing I headed home again, only to be presented with a moral dilemma on the bus. Shit, I thought, as I sat there. It was just my luck to be presented with a dilemma on the bus. Things always happen to me on buses. I had a strange, almost surreal encounter with a winkle on the bus a few weeks back, and now here I was being presented with a moral dilemma.
Should I or should I not tap the shoulder of the girl sitting in front of me to inform her there was a bloody big spider in her hair? Was it my moral duty to tell her? Might it be better to leave her in blissful ignorance instead of letting her know an arachnid was hitching a ride on her bonce?
The girl concerned had a messy nest of bluey-black hair arranged in a weird sort of bun come ponytail on the side of her head. At first I thought I was imagining things when I spotted ‘movement’ in the bottom half of her do. I thought it might be a breeze wafting the individual hairs, until I leaned a little closer and realised it was a spider’s leg waving about. I watched in fascinated horror as all its legs emerged followed by a fat round body. It was a big bugger. I wouldn’t like it in my hair. God knows where she’d picked it up. Maybe it was her pet?
If it wasn’t a pet and I did tell her, what would her reaction be? I pictured her leaping to her feet and screaming while clawing wildly at her hair. It would startle the bus driver who would then swerve and crash the bus, killing all passengers in the process. The spider would be the only thing to walk away unscathed. There’s no morality in killing a busload of complete strangers.
I considered flicking the beast from her head, as a kind of chivalric favour, but that was probably worse than telling her she had a spider in her hair. What if she didn’t believe me? What if she thought I was a pervert who got my rocks off by flicking my fingers at women’s hair? I’d get arrested and charged with sexual harassment. Besides, what if I accidentally flicked the spider back on myself? Then I’d be the one screaming and leaping around causing the bus driver to overturn the bus and kill us all.
By the time I’d done fretting and pondering the eight-legged hitchhiker had climbed the girl’s ponytail and was sitting triumphant on the bun affair. I imagined it planting a little flag and claiming the territory for its own.
In the end I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and it was probably best if I said nothing. There was no sense in upsetting her. Chances were that the beast would fall off or be blown off when she got off the bus and she’d be none the wiser. However, it was such agony watching Incy Wincy cavorting around her head that I alighted the bus several stops early and walked the rest of the way home. I think I’m going to start travelling by taxi in future. It might be safer.