Saturday 13th August 2016

Dear Diary,

I thought it was time to grace your pages with my fair presence once again. I’ve calmed down since my last entry and I promise not to fizz and explode like a bottle of dropped pop. I took a leaf out of a fan’s book/email (cheers, BB) and decided to back away from the Internet for a while and chill out. As many of you gathered, and I thank you for your communications on the subject, I had an email that pushed my touchy houseboy button big time. It’s done with. I’m my calm, rational self once again, well, as calm and rational as I ever get.  

My nearing the end of summer resolution is this: I shall endeavour to maintain some kind of online presence, as well as endeavour to continue with the follow up to ‘Christmas at Leo’s.’ It isn’t going well. After an initial spurt I have done very little work on it. In all honesty this has been a tough year and my enthusiasm for writing has waned a good deal.  I won’t say the creative spark is dead, but it is dormant at this moment in time. It’s been worrying me, but I’ve recently come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter. The world won’t stop turning if I never write another word. The economy won’t collapse and it won’t affect the harvest or bring on a drought.

For a while I kidded myself that I was suffering from writer’s block, but the truth is I’m not a writer in any real sense of the word, so to claim writer’s block was a tad grandiose. Writing isn’t the core of my existence. It doesn’t put a roof over my head. It doesn’t enable me to buy diamond-studded underpants or treat the men folk to eye bogglingly expensive gifts. It was something I did/do mainly for pleasure, for fun. Somewhere along the line the fun part became eroded and it started to feel like a task I wasn’t up to completing. It felt heavy and serious and burdensome and that’s not what I wanted.

We all need some fun and frolics in our lives, if only as an antidote to the heavy stuff going on in the world at the moment. With that in mind I shall inveigle Dick into going to the flicks with me sometime over the weekend to see ‘Suicide Squad.’ It looks mental. It hasn’t had the best reviews in the world, but so what. I don’t care much about critics and their opinions. Some of them are so far up their own arses it’s a wonder they can see anything other than what they had for breakfast. Comic book films are supposed to be fun, silly, irrational, daft, far-fetched, etc. They’re not fucking Shakespeare after all. They’re not intended to teach life lessons. They’re pure junk food escapism.

Before I toddle off I’ll answer a couple of questions recently posed by loyal Fluff Bunnies. (If Dame Edna can name her fans Possums then I can call mine Fluff Bunnies. After all, dusting is my main stock in trade and talent.) 
1) Carte D’ ORE and Ben and Jerry’s have cinnamon ice cream in their range of flavours, or you could have a go at making your own if you’re feeling adventurous and have a fancy ice cream maker gadget.  2) I don’t (knowingly) eat food that has alcohol as an ingredient because according to he who must be obeyed it’s a bit of a fallacy that booze completely burns off during the cooking process. He doesn’t care if what’s left isn’t enough to inebriate a gnat. This boy isn’t having it. It's not only about keeping me safe. It's a way of keeping me grounded within the rules of our relationship. :)

Ciao for now Fluff Bunnies!  Have a great weekend whatever you're doing.



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