Monday 17th January 2011

 

Dear Diary,

As you know 2010 was not a stellar year for me and it ended pretty much to form. Christmas wasn’t brilliant. In particular Christmas Eve was a fucking disaster. I’m ashamed to say I got involved in a very unseemly pub brawl. I was arrested along with my friend Lee. We spent most of the afternoon in police custody while things were sorted out. We didn’t start the ruckus and witnesses corroborated this fact. All the same Daddy Shane was utterly furious on several counts and I was disciplined the moment he got me home. Dick was sweeter and more sympathetic, as is his nature.

Christmas Day was pleasant enough. Shane and I had a renaissance and things started to look up, but then I fell ill on Boxing Day. I was smitten down with flu. It was horrible. I thought I was dying. Dick also succumbed and poor Shane spent much of his Christmas break from work playing nurse to us both. Dick went through the process and then started to recover, but I developed a chest infection. I was admitted to hospital on New Year’s Eve when my temperature soared and I began fitting. Thankfully I was allowed home late on New Year’s Day. I’m much better now, though I still have a rib-cracking cough. Shane had a mild skirmish with the flu virus. It invaded his territory but his alpha antibodies soon kicked its arse and it fled to find a weaker victim.

Anyway, dear diary, I did intend to write in you last Friday, but circumstances beyond my control arose and I had to abandon the attempt. Dick arrived home even earlier than he normally does on a Friday. I was thrilled to hear him call my name and went eagerly to greet him. Pleasure turned to dismay when I saw he had his cousin Peter with him.  He’d called Dick on Thursday night to say he was paying a rare visit to the area on Friday and to suggest they meet up for lunch. My understanding was that they would have lunch and then Peter would be on his way again. However, Dick invited him to stay over for the weekend and he accepted. I didn’t relish the prospect of having him as a houseguest. He’s a douche. I don’t like him. In fact to be honest I’m a bit afraid of him. I first met him last year when we went down to spend Christmas with Dick’s family.  If and when I get around to writing about my annus horribilis I will journal full details. I didn’t enjoy the weekend, but I got through it and thankfully the douche headed back down south on Sunday afternoon.

I’m going to try and do more writing this year. I want to try and pull together my 2008 diary. There’s some stuff I really should have included in the 2007 compilation, but I wasn’t ready to deal with it.

Well, that’s it for now. I just wanted to pop in and christen the diary for another year. I wish all site visitors a Happy New Year. Fingers crossed I don’t get lumbered with another horrible anus this year!

 

Tuesday 18th January 2011

After some mild weather the mercury has dipped again and it’s ball achingly cold and frosty today. However, chilly though it was outside, the kitchen of the quasi mansion was warm and cosy this morning. It’s Shane’s birthday. I got up even earlier than usual so I could prepare him a special breakfast. I set the kitchen table all intimate and pretty with best china and flowers and then dished up his favourite smoked salmon with scrambled eggs and pan-toasted croissants along with freshly squeezed orange juice and plenty of hot coffee. Operation Birthday Breakfast was a complete success. I got sir seated at the table and then sat astride his lap in order to deliver a full throttle birthday kiss (don’t worry people I brushed my teeth on first getting up so there was no danger of ‘morning death breath’ syndrome putting him off his brekkie)

I’m boracic lint on the cash front at the moment so my gift to him was a humble silk tie. It’s a nice one though, it’s a very elegant dark blue and it’s hand made. I got it for half price in a sale. Shane liked it, he said it was an excellent cut and then scolded me for buying him anything at all seeing as he’d told me not to. There was no real sting in his words. After we’d breakfasted he pulled me onto his knee for a cuddle. The cuddle turned amorous and though I hadn’t planned on serving sausages for breakfast, sausages were served and served damn well even if I do say so myself. Dick came downstairs just as we were finishing and looked hopeful of getting his share of the meaty fest. Alas Shane announced that the buffet was closed, as he had to be getting on his way to work. Dick had to make do with a quick kiss, a buttock squeeze and a promise of later.

We’re having a dinner party in honour of Shane’s birthday this evening. I’m trying out a Gordon Ramsay recipe for roast loin of pork with caramelised apple and broccoli and mustard mash. It sounds nice, so I hope it turns out. The good thing about a Ramsay recipe is that they all come complete with a glossary of swear words and insults to be uttered in the event they go wrong (lie detectors says NO) Okay that was a fib. I have my own inbuilt glossary of bad words anyway. 

I must be off, lots to do.


 

Sunday 23rd January 2011

This year is galloping along at a fair lick already. It’ll be Easter before you know it. I’ve noticed the shops are already sneaking Easter eggs onto shelves. They’ll have had boxes of them on standby in their warehouses for months. They’re made years in advance. God knows what they use as preservatives. If they injected people with whatever they inject into Cadbury’s Crème Eggs we’d all live forever…okay we’d ooze gooey stuff from every orifice, but it would be a small price to pay for immortality and it would put a sweet twist on oral sex.

There was a lot of fucking in our house this morning, but not of the fun kind. An air of ill temper permeated the quasi mansion. I think it must be our man period time of the month. I didn’t want to get up and stubbornly ignored all hints that it was time for me to depart the bed of cohabitation in order to begin breakfast preps. I snarked that Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, even for lowly non-executive houseboys, and it would be a nice if someone made me breakfast for a fucking change. Shane growled a final warning to get my arse out of bed. Dick chipped in with a ‘stop fucking moaning, Gil, you’ve had a decent enough sleep in.’ I got out of bed with attitude and stumped to the bathroom for a pee before heading downstairs.

I set the kitchen table and prepared a cooked breakfast and then yelled up the stairs that it was ready. Shane came down first growling a complaint about the house being like a fucking furnace. I pointed out that it had been cold when I hopped out of bed and I couldn’t be expected to work in freezing conditions. He said if I wore more clothes instead of cavorting around half naked I wouldn’t have to have the thermostat turned to fucking nuclear mode. He turned the heating off altogether and I thumped upstairs to don a pair of jeans and a jumper in place of pj bottoms and a short sleeve tee.

Dick was still abed so I told him his breakfast was getting cold and I wasn’t going to make another one. I had things to be doing and I couldn’t be farting around making fresh breakfasts all morning. Flinging aside the duvet he accused me of being in one of my fucking hissy housewife moods and issued a warning to adjust my attitude or he’d adjust it for me.

I headed back downstairs to the kitchen and took delivery of a barrage of moans from Shane: coffee wasn’t strong enough, bacon was too salty, sausages were overdone and there was no toast, where was the toast? I pointed at the bread bin and snapped, ‘toast doesn’t come ready fucking made you know, it starts out life as bread.’ The seat of my jeans flinched as a heavy hand delivered a message of disapproval regarding my shitty manner.

Dick came into the kitchen just as I was putting a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. He’d pulled on the shirt he’d been wearing the night before over the boxers he’d been sleeping in. He chewed off my lug because the house was ‘fucking freezing!’

Shane saved me from responding by repeating what he’d said to me about cavorting around half naked. He also added a postscript about the cost of energy. Dick glared at him and said if money was the issue then he’d pay the next bill out of his personal income, anything rather than have his fucking balls drop off with cold. The temperature in the kitchen dipped further as Shane’s eyes registered icy displeasure. I was asked to leave the room for a few moments as Daddy wished to have words with Richard.

Breakfast resumed in silence with Dick dressed in similar fashion to myself. 

Once Shane had eaten his fill he went upstairs to attend to his ablutions. Dick demanded fresh tea and more toast and I set about serving him. I’d just slipped a couple of slices of raw bread into the toaster when Shane stormed back into the kitchen and slapped a brightly coloured pack of moist toilet wipes onto the worktop in front of me. A small fear gripped me. Surely he wasn’t about to demand I wipe his arse for him, not in the kitchen. I’d have to refuse on hygiene grounds. I’d loose one of my houseboy pips of honour if it got out that I’d wiped arse while handling toast. My fear proved groundless. The slapping down of the toilet tissue packet was accompanied by the words,‘whoopie doo! Whoopie fucking doo?’

I knew from his tone of voice and the look on his mug that he wasn’t expressing sudden spontaneous joy. He was economically naming the product and demanding answer to a question at one and the same time. Not that the product in question had a fucking anywhere in its title, that bit was poetic licence on Shane’s part. The wipes within the packet were aimed at toddlers and the manufacturers would hardly risk alienating their niche market by use of mother shocking expletives.

Mustering my dignity, which sounds rather rude when you think about it, I explained that Tesco had run out of our usual brand of flushable moist toilet tissue and I had bought the only available alternative to tide us over until they restocked. Surely something was better than nothing when it came to bottom freshness? My thoughtful action was not appreciated.

Ripping open the packet he dragged out a moist toddler training tissue and shook it in front of my face asking how the fuck he was supposed to wipe his backside on something the size of a doll’s hanky.

Dick, who seemed to have woken up with a death wish, sarcastically suggested Shane improvise by sewing a few dozen of the wipes together in order to make one big enough for his arse. He was sharply told to watch his manners. I was sharply told to buy proper toilet tissue at the earliest opportunity and then Shane swept out of the kitchen taking the pack of Whoopie Doo for toddler poo bum wipes with him.

Once I’d gotten breakfasts out of the way I went out for a walk. I still can’t manage a run yet, not without having a deadly coughing fit. On my way home I called in at the local convenience store and paid a king’s ransom for a pack of adult size moist toilet tissues.  I got back to discover Dick had washed his car. I went off the deep end, not because he’d washed his car, but because he’d tramped mucky wet footprints all over the hall floor in the process. I’d spent almost two hours cleaning, re-waxing and polishing that floor on Saturday and it was bloody ruined.

Shane called a truce and said it was evident that Dick and I were in need of some fresh air to blow away our bad temper. I was commanded to make up some sandwiches and a flask of coffee and then we were bundled into his car and driven out to the coast. We had a long walk on the beach and then sheltered among the sand dunes to eat sandwiches and drink coffee. I sat between them and we risked a three-way cuddle and kiss as the sun went down on the grey waves splashing them with colour before fading to darkness, leaving only oceanic sound as evidence of their existence. 

It was three more even-tempered and peaceful men who headed for home.

I’m going to make some supper now and then we’ll cosy up on the couch and watch a DVD.

 

Saturday 29th January 2011

 

I gave Dick an unusual Christmas present this year (last year?) I didn’t have a lot of spare cash to buy gifts, so I had to be inventive. I presented him with a fish pedicure. I bought a large haddock from the fishmonger and used it to file his toenails with. It was smelly, but effective. (Lie detectors says NO) Oh all right, that was a fib. The bit about the fish pedicure is true, but with slightly different details. 

There’s a new Japanese style salon in town that offers fish pedicures. Punters take off their socks and shoes and plunge their dogs into a tank of little black fishies, which then nibble all the hard skin off their feet. It’s true. I’m not making it up. The fish are called garra rufa fish and they love to dine on dry skin. They have suction cup mouths that lift away dead skin without damaging new skin underneath. The fish tanks are frequently filtered so the water is clean. I bought a gift voucher for Dick. It only cost me ten quid to purchase fifteen minutes of treatment. He likes having his feet messed about with. I thought it would appeal to his kinky nature - having fish nibble his feet, and it would make a change from me having to do it. 

Anyway he took the plunge, so to speak, this afternoon. I went with him. The salon is open plan and the public can watch. It’s a bit like a spectator sport. 

Dick enjoyed it. He said it was an experience. As soon as we got home he kicked off his socks and shoes so Shane could feel his smooth tootsies. You know Dick, it doesn’t take much to inflame his passions. Before long I found myself playing spectator for the second time as a very dirty porn scene unfolded in the lounge. Thank God I managed to close the blinds before the pair of them started swinging naked from the chandelier. I was roped in to emulate the garra rufa fish with their suction cup mouths. Only it wasn’t feet I was sucking! 

I didn't call in just to prattle on. I called in to say I’ve finally made a proper start on writing up another book. Preview available here. 

 

 

 

FEBRUARY 2011


 
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