Saturday 4th May 2013
May already! We’re almost halfway through the year. There’s a Bank Holiday looming on the horizon. For once the weather looks promising. It’s a bit breezy today, but at least it’s bright. Leo is talking about having a BHB, bank holiday barbecue, on Monday. Personally I’d rather go out for a bike ride with the men folk.
Thank you to those who have emailed of late. I’ll also apologise to anyone who got a spam message from my account address. I was hacked. I’m sorry. I’ve changed my password and am toying with changing my email address altogether, when I can be arsed. Honestly, I can’t stand those douches that hack and spam. I know I’m not the only one it happens to. I’ve had some spam mails from folks who usually send fan mail. It’s embarrassing when hacking happens, though fuck knows why we, the victims, should be embarrassed and apologetic. It’s like apologising for being mugged.
So, I hear you ask, either that or I’m picking up police transmissions through the computer speakers again, I’ve been asked what my run in with Shane was about a few weeks back. The answer is Margaret Thatcher. We clashed on the morning of her funeral. You couldn’t get away from her. No matter what TV or radio station you tuned into, all you got was MT and her impending funeral. It wound my key right up.
Okay. Let’s take a moment to remember she was a human being (allegedly) and she had family, a daughter, a son (over privileged arsehole who exploited his ma’s political position to feather his own already luxurious nest) and a granddaughter grieving for her and that’s fine. They were fully entitled to grieve for the person they loved and knew as a mother and grandmother. There is no greater sadness than the passing of a loved one. I respected their personal grief and their need to give her due rites of passage.
What I didn’t respect was the lavish public funded charade that took place for a woman who had no time and no respect for a large proportion of this country’s population. She was an arrogant prejudiced bitch who looked down on the working classes and she was a massive homophobe to boot. Her coffin was trundled through the streets as if she were some great national icon. Pomp, circumstance and state funerals should be reserved for those who served the entire nation, not just a privileged few. She sold off resources that should have belonged to all and shared the wealth between those who were wealthy to begin with.
The news coverage infuriated me. They spoke of her as is she were royalty. Of course what I should have done was turn off the radio, take a deep breath and concentrate on my duties instead of seething over something I could do nothing about. Being me I just got on with seething.
By the time Shane came downstairs for his breakfast I was fully wound. I couldn’t keep my trap shut. I chuntered on and on about her and the funeral costs and how it was a fucking disgrace the cost was coming out of the public purse when the poorest and most vulnerable people in the country were having benefits stopped or slashed. ‘All that money being spent, millions, and they’re going to cremate her afterwards, what a fucking waste, and why cremation? To stop people having the satisfaction of pissing on her grave that’s why!’
Shane tried distracting me by asking about my plans for the day. Then he tried ignoring me, and then he lost patience. He told me to turn the radio off, keep my tongue behind my teeth and get on with serving breakfast. Stalking over to the radio I turned it off as ordered, but it didn’t stop my gob from working. I’d worked myself up into too great a state of agitation. I’m like a runaway train when I get fixated on something. Turning to him I snapped, ‘I’m surprised you’re working today. Given the circumstances I thought you might have taken the day off to attend the cow’s funeral. If there’s a petition to have her officially declared patron saint of the middle classes I bet your name will be at the top of it along with your dad’s and Penny’s.’
He was a teensy bit miffed. (Lie detector says, yeah and the rest!) Okay. He was VERY miffed. He went off to work leaving me with a VERY sore backside and an instruction to think about why I deserved it. We’d discuss it when he got home that evening. He also put the telly, the radio and every other means of news coverage out of bounds on the grounds I’d already used the media to trigger a full day’s quota of mindless fucking hysteria.
I did think about things, and he was right. I deserved the spanking he gave me. I'd been shitty with him for days and all because he didn't agree with my opinion of ratbag Thatcher. All too often I take out my hot temper on him. As he says, I’m a feeler rather than a thinker and I frequently let my emotions overwhelm me. At such times I suppose I push against him because he represents ultimate authority in our house and I subconsciously know he’ll only take so much before giving me the skelp I need to jolt me out of emotional overload and back to reality.
Dick was pretty cross with me too, so there was scant comfort there. He scolded me for my rude manner and petty bitching and for giving Daddy earache and heartburn over nothing.
I felt ashamed of the way I’d behaved. It isn’t fair to stress Shane out before he goes to work. It’s my job to give him an easy start to his day. I texted an apology, hoping he’d pick it up when he got to work. He did. He messaged back to say we’d discuss it later.
I wanted to show my remorse and make amends via a gesture. I couldn’t buy flowers. They’d only trigger his hay fever. He’s not really a sweet eater or a chocolate cruncher as such, but he does like to suck on what Dick and I secretly refer to as an ‘old man sweet’ every now and again when he’s driving. I bought him a bag of Werther’s Originals and gift-wrapped them, pinning a sorry note to the front.
In the event we didn’t discuss things that evening. Something came up at work, which required his full attention that night and the following. Discussion was put back until Friday night whereupon he put me in the picture about a few things. He was sick to the back teeth of me treating him, not only with gross disrespect, but as if he was personally responsible for every policy Thatcher’s government had ever put into practice. Yes, he voted Conservative and probably always would. He had every fucking right to support whatever political party he so chose, just as I did. Supporting a party didn’t mean you supported everything they did and >quote< ‘for your information, boy, how much her funeral cost and how it was staged wasn’t down to me. I wasn’t fucking consulted. If I had been I’d have voiced the opinion that her family should have paid for a quiet private affair followed by a public memorial service.’
The lecture concluded with him telling me I needed to grow up and accept that people had different political points of view. I also needed to learn not to take it as a personal slight or attack when someone disagreed with my political stance. He accepted my sweet offering and apology and we kissed and made up. He was strict with me over the weekend, but I didn’t mind. I liked it. It was reassuring. I need bringing back to heel every now and again.
We’re going out for dinner this evening, so I must away and make ready before I start getting bawled at to shift my arse. Ciao for now.
Monday 20th May 2013
Dear Diary,
I thought I’d better surf in and leave some scribblings on your pages. It’s been a while now. May is galloping towards June at a hell of a rate. It will be Christmas before you know it. The weather in Blighty is cool, wet and really rather depressing. I’ve been trying to make the quasi mansion’s gardens look beautiful in between bouts of rain and wind.
Dick has got his moaning head on because it’s blossom time of year again. The cherry blossom trees in our garden have at last started to properly bloom again after being decimated a few years back when Dick had them polled. We had a massive falling out over it. I was so upset with him and Shane. Details will be divvied in my new book if ever I get around to completing it. I love cherry blossom. It’s beautiful. It signifies spring, but Dick hates it, especially when damp petals get blown on his precious car. He reckons they corrode the paintwork.
To be honest I have felt depressed of late and not only because of the weather. A bad episode left me feeling like my brain was shrouded in impenetrable fog for days afterwards. I could barely function. It made me so fucking angry. I admit to being a crabby bastard to live with. The men folk are patient with me at such times, but they have their breaking point. Shane’s patience finally expired when I hurled a bread roll at him during a dinner table altercation over soup seasoning. He claimed the soup I’d served was too salty. It was, but all the same I took bad tempered exception at having it pointed out. I chucked the bun and told him to soak up the salt with it. It was only a soft bread bun so there was no risk of injury. It didn’t even hit him. It sailed over his head. Boy, was he mad though. His hand injured my backside, spanking it several shades of scalding scarlet. One does not bowl buns at Daddy and get away with it.
As if things weren’t shitty enough I was then attacked and gored by a bull. It left me with serious injuries. (Lie detector says No, no and thrice NO) Oh all right, it wasn’t a bull exactly. It was bully beef, a can of corned beef. I cut myself on the tin. I hate those cans that you open with a key. They are so fucking dangerous. The opened edges are razor sharp enough to shave with. I managed to get the corned beef out of the tin and onto a plate without incident. The can attacked me when I was rinsing it prior to chucking it in the recycling box. The evil bastard gashed two of my fingers. There was blood everywhere. I’m always clumsier after a brain fizz incident. It gets me down.
I’ve had a few dreams about my mother lately, vivid ones. I woke up after one of them with tears pouring down my face and a sense of grief so raw it was as if she had just died. I reckon it’s because I’m working on the new book. 2009 was the year she passed.
We’re eating out tonight. Shane is slumming it and joining Dick and me for a Pizza Hut meal prior to going to the pictures to see the new Star Trek film. I have a suspicion Shane is only joining us to keep an eye on me, in case the special effects trigger another brain fizz meltdown. Bless his Armani socks. He does worry.
Thank you for all your emails. As usual the houseboy is way behind with replies. Special thanks to Vivi, Teko, Mary and Cathy. Cheers for sharing. :)