Thursday 2nd February 2012
Hello, hello, hello, what’s going on here then?
<Cups hand behind lug the better to hear a resounding shout of ‘Fuck All! Where have you been you lazy bugger of a houseboy?’>
Ah yes, ‘tis I, the houseboy, popping in to wish you a belated Happy New Year! 2012 is aging fast and no anti wrinkle cream on earth can prevent it. February already, the month of romance, hearts, flowers…or in Dick and Shane’s case, the month much like any other. I’m determined to get them to be more romantic this year.
So, I hear you ask, either that or the voices have started up again and I need to get back on the meds, where have you been, Mr Brown? Well, I have been around, but not online. I pissed off alpha Daddy on New Year’s Eve and he put me on a choke chain so tight I could barely breathe without written permission and a dispensation from the pope. No Internet was an aspect of my punishment. He finally relented and gave me back my freedom on Tuesday evening, releasing me from the wooden crate he’s been keeping me in this past month. (Lie detector says NO) Oh all right, that was a fiberoo. He would never keep me in a crate, a suitcase maybe, but never a crate.
Christmas was a pile of old shite without so much as a dusting of glitter to help make it shine. It was horrendous actually. Shane’s dad berated him for bringing along his ‘pet whore.’ The pet whore in question being me of course. To be fair, he wasn’t very well. He was still getting over a chest infection and he hadn’t been taking his diabetes meds properly, add that to the fact he was disappointed over James and Lorraine going away and what you ended up with was something pretty toxic. He doesn’t like me at the best of times, so I was an ideal target for his bile. It was upsetting and made more so when as a result Shane sent Dick and I home while he stayed on. I’ll have to write it up in more detail at some point.
Anyway, I just wanted to say hello and let it be known I’m back with more random chuntering and scribbling.
BTW Thank you to all who have sent emails, my sincere apologies for taking so long to make reply.
Ciao for now!
Friday 3rd February 2012
Shit and fuck. And no, before you rush off to find a loo and someone to shag with, that wasn’t an instruction, it was an exclamation of dismay on my part. I’ve had a disaster with my swiffer mop this morning. I was using it to swipe at a cobweb I spotted on the ceiling in the lounge when I somehow lost control of it. I knocked the clock off the mantelpiece. It hit the edge of the hearth and burst into its component parts. The front glass ricocheted off and onto the coffee table leaving a dirty big scratch on the top. I’m a murderer of objets d′art. I’ve killed the clock and seriously wounded the table and we’re not taking Argos and Ikea objects here. Replacing them with a battery operated carriage clock and a lump of MDF pretending to be a table just won’t cut the mustard.
I don’t think anything can be done for the clock. Its time is literally up. It’s beyond help and needs only a decent burial. The table might recover if I can procure the services of a decent French polisher. I’ve had a go at it with some beeswax and elbow grease, but it’s done nothing other than bring a shine to the area around the scratch, making it stand out even more. I forecast Shane’s clumsy pet whore getting a boot up the arse this evening. I tried calling him to tell him I’d had a domestic disaster, but his phone was off so he’s likely in a meeting. I’ve left him a text message instead, it says simply ‘oops’ and is guaranteed to have him phoning home at speed when he reads it. I reckon telling him over the phone will be preferable to landing it on him when he arrives home after a long day at work. It’ll give him time to adjust to the fact the clock is dead and the coffee table disfigured.
It’s quite chill and frosty here today with forecast of snow on the way, but all in all it’s been a strange winter this year, not nearly cold enough, not here in Blighty anyway. After two years of artic winters this one has been milder than mild. I think the lack of cold and frost added to the misery of Christmas. It didn’t feel festive at all; there was no sparkle to it. Winter is meant to be cold in the northern hemisphere. Christmas Day was actually warm and sunny, weather wise anyway, mood wise it was a different matter.
Dick and I ended up spending Christmas Day with Leo after all. Shane stayed on with his father as planned until Penny got back from her Christmas break with friends the day after Boxing Day.
The old sod erupted the moment he clapped eyes on me. I offend his morality of numbers. In his mind intimate relationships, regardless of gender mix, are made up of two and not three people. I’m the equivalent of a mistress who should have the decency to remain invisible. I think part of his hostility towards me may be rooted in the fact his wife cuckolded him. Dick says he’s never really gotten over it.
After his father’s vitriolic outburst Shane got his stuff out of the car and then handed the keys to Dick, telling him to take me straight home. I think he would have joined us if not for the fact the old man was obviously unwell. I hated the idea of the three of us not being together at Christmas. I’d have stayed and weathered it, but Shane was adamant. He said his father didn’t deserve company and we’d have a pleasanter holiday with Leo. It was okay in its way, but it wasn’t the same without him there. It unsettled me, which I think lead up to me challenging the Daddy man on New Year’s Eve.
Well, enough chuntering, I must be off to seek out house insurance policies. I’ve also got food shopping to do and a French Polisher to find, though if there are no French ones around I’ll consider ones of any nationality. Never let it be said the houseboy is a xenopube, or do I mean xenophobe. Probably the latter, the former being a fear of pubic hairs, which I do suffer from, but only when Dick is around and intent on ripping mine out using hot wax and a pair of deadly tweezers.
Saturday 4th February 2012
Shane came into the kitchen this morning to find me making cheese sandwiches. I’d thickly buttered both slices of bread and was inserting thin slices of cheddar in between them, as one does when making sarnies.
“What are you doing,” he said, when it was obvious what I was doing.
“I’m making cheese sandwiches,” I said, replying to the obvious with the obvious.
“You surely can’t be hungry already,” he frowned, “not after the breakfast you put away. Have you got a fucking tapeworm or something?”
“They’re not for me,” I said, snootily.
“Who are they for then?” He asked, gazing around the kitchen, as if he looking for some unexpected hungry guest he knew nothing about, and one he suspected me of hiding from him.
“Birds.” I replied, beginning to cut the sandwiches into tiny squares.
“Birds, what do you mean birds?” His voice took on a grumpy edge indicating he didn’t have a fucking clue as to what I was on about.
“Birds, spuggies, those feathered things that fly around outside in the garden.” I said, by way of enlightenment.
There was a brief moment of silence as he took on board this information, and then, “you’re making cheese sandwiches for the birds?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, enjoying the look of incredulity spreading across his face. “It’s best not to give them plain dry bread, it isn’t good for them, it swells in their stomachs and they explode. (Lie detector says NO) Oh all right, that was an exaggeration, but it really isn’t good for them, it says so in my wildlife magazine. “They need fats,” I continued, “especially when it’s cold like this, and they enjoy cheese sandwiches.”
He stared at me, “most people make do with throwing out a bit of stale bread for the birds, but you have to make them cheese sandwiches.” He shook his head, landed a slap to my arse, kissed the top of my head and walked out of the kitchen muttering, “cheese sandwiches for the birds, un-fucking believable.”
And there you have it, the secret of a successful relationship - still having the ability to surprise, nay, even dumfound your partners no matter how long you’ve been together, and on that subject, Sir was, as predicted, most cross about my domestic disaster yesterday. I was soundly nagged for my cack handed clumsiness. He grimly stated a belief that knowing me I’d probably been clowning around with the fucking mop. How else could the simple process of dusting away a cobweb result in the demise of an expensive mechanical timepiece and the ruination of a perfectly good coffee table?
I huffily denied the clowning around bit. It’s not my fault that the gods of hearth and home like to curse me from time to time. Dick tried to pour oil by saying he’d never liked the clock and it was a good opportunity to replace it with something more modern and interesting. He got glared at and was told to be ‘quiet, Richard’ for his trouble. Anyway, I was spared a spanking, but he sent me to bed early if only to prevent me causing any more damage to house contents. He loves me really. I add spice and the element of surprise to his life.
I got in touch with a French polisher yesterday, it was odd, but he spoke perfect English with no trace of an accent. He’s coming on Monday to have a look at the table.
I’m being summoned. The lordly ones want their lunch. I must away or face accusations about me feeding the fucking birds better than I feed them.