Friday 5th January 2024
Dear Diary,
2024! Twenty-fucking-twenty-FOUR! What’s that all about, eh? Where has the time gone? I can’t believe it. When I parked my arse on a chair and began scribing my domestic adventures in 2006, I never in my wildest dreams imagined I’d still be here burbling bullshit in 2024. I’m no longer a kid, though the men folk insist I’ll always be their baby, no matter how old I am. I still feel about eighteen inside (Shane claims I still act it too) and, even if I do say so myself, I still look pretty damn good. I’ve always looked younger than my years. It’s one of those things you kind of curse when you’re actually eighteen, and you want to get into a pub or club, but get turned away because you look about twelve. The older you get, the more you appreciate being ‘baby-faced.’ Still, time is passing.
I had a bit of an emotional moment on New Year’s Eve. It was Dick’s dad what triggered it. Come midnight, he raised his glass of bubbly and made a toast to the New Year, adding a postscript that just about killed the festivities stone dead: here’s hoping I’m still here this time next year. Dick’s mother crisply told him not to be maudlin and to lay off the champagne because clearly he’d had enough. To be fair, he kind of said it in a jokey way, but given his recent ill health, there was an element of pathos too. It upset me. I had to leave the room. I fear losing the people I love and those I’ve grown fond of, Dick’s dad included. I guess I just don’t like change. Let’s face it, the festive season lends itself to memories of those no longer with us too. It’s a mixed bag, and I can understand why so many struggle with it. Anyway, I had a bit of a private blub before rejoining the party. The men folk can always tell when I’ve had an emosh moment. They didn’t say anything verbally, but hugs and a kiss say more than words anyway.
Christmas itself was, shall we say, stressful. As you know, I wasn’t in the best of moods to start with. I haven’t got time to go into detail at the mo though. (Yeah, I know, I’m a teasing twat.) We’re having a date night tonight, no telly, just a nice dinner, nicely presented followed by talk, cuddles and ‘other’ stuff, if you get my drift. Got to keep the spark alive, peeps. I’m off to make myself gorgeous. I just wanted to pop in and say ta very much for all recent emails and New Year Wishes.
I wish you all A Happy (hopeful and healthy) New Year! X
Friday 19th January 2024
Dear Diary,
I’m having a snow day today, not that there’s much snow in my portion of Old Blighty. There is a hard frost, a very hard frost. It could take on Tyson Fury, no problem. So, no running today, or garden pottering, or generally leaving the house to freeze my balls off in the wider world. Plus, I’m waiting in for a meat order to be delivered. I’ll go for a run later. Hopefully the pavements will have de-iced by then and there’ll be less risk of breaking a limb by going arse over tit.
Thank God the heating got fixed. Even Shane, Mr extra layer, has acknowledged that’s it’s pretty cold at the moment. He and Dick did their fair share of moaning about the driving conditions this morning. I told them to be grateful we still had some kind of winter weather, because given climate change, snow and frost will be consigned to history before very long. Sad. I like the seasons to be the seasons.
There’s not much going on at the moment, all is quiet on the houseboy front. January is a limbo month in many ways, a kind of no man’s land between one year ending and another getting properly underway. I got a couple of good books for Christmas and have just finished reading Richard Osman’s latest ‘Thursday Murder Club’ mystery. I really enjoyed it. Next up, it’s Robert Galbraith’s latest ‘Strike’ offering. My only gripe so far is the size of the bloody thing. You need weight training just to be able to hold it in your hands, plus reinforced bookshelves to house it. Not that I hold on to all the books I buy or get gifted. Most are read and then passed on. A few of them become favourites that I keep and go back to time and again.
On my own, very humble, writing front, I’m making progress with Bits and Bobs. I’m hopeful of completing it some time this year, barring acts of God and/or a nuclear wipe-out from the morally bankrupt nutters that seem to be in charge of the planet. I’m doing my very best to avoid the news at the moment, because it gets me down, and it makes me ANGRY. Some of the anger stems from a sense of helplessness and hopelessness. I’m just a member of Joe Public with no real power to change anything. The fuckwits who do have the power don’t give a hoot about little people. See, I’ve depressed myself again. I’m going to have to knock off before I tip into irrational rant mode. Time for a coffee break and something sweet to soothe my nerves.
Ciao for now.
Dear Diary,
I’m having a snow day today, not that there’s much snow in my portion of Old Blighty. There is a hard frost, a very hard frost. It could take on Tyson Fury, no problem. So, no running today, or garden pottering, or generally leaving the house to freeze my balls off in the wider world. Plus, I’m waiting in for a meat order to be delivered. I’ll go for a run later. Hopefully the pavements will have de-iced by then and there’ll be less risk of breaking a limb by going arse over tit.
Thank God the heating got fixed. Even Shane, Mr extra layer, has acknowledged that’s it’s pretty cold at the moment. He and Dick did their fair share of moaning about the driving conditions this morning. I told them to be grateful we still had some kind of winter weather, because given climate change, snow and frost will be consigned to history before very long. Sad. I like the seasons to be the seasons.
There’s not much going on at the moment, all is quiet on the houseboy front. January is a limbo month in many ways, a kind of no man’s land between one year ending and another getting properly underway. I got a couple of good books for Christmas and have just finished reading Richard Osman’s latest ‘Thursday Murder Club’ mystery. I really enjoyed it. Next up, it’s Robert Galbraith’s latest ‘Strike’ offering. My only gripe so far is the size of the bloody thing. You need weight training just to be able to hold it in your hands, plus reinforced bookshelves to house it. Not that I hold on to all the books I buy or get gifted. Most are read and then passed on. A few of them become favourites that I keep and go back to time and again.
On my own, very humble, writing front, I’m making progress with Bits and Bobs. I’m hopeful of completing it some time this year, barring acts of God and/or a nuclear wipe-out from the morally bankrupt nutters that seem to be in charge of the planet. I’m doing my very best to avoid the news at the moment, because it gets me down, and it makes me ANGRY. Some of the anger stems from a sense of helplessness and hopelessness. I’m just a member of Joe Public with no real power to change anything. The fuckwits who do have the power don’t give a hoot about little people. See, I’ve depressed myself again. I’m going to have to knock off before I tip into irrational rant mode. Time for a coffee break and something sweet to soothe my nerves.
Ciao for now.