Saturday 16th June 2012

We’re midway through June already. Weather wise it’s been a urinal kind of month so far, pissing down everyday. The gardens look like marshland. We had a wicked thunderstorm yesterday. Everything went pitch black and then the hail came followed by thunder and lightening and torrential rain. It was scary in its way, like a biblical storm. I half expected it to be followed by a plague of locusts and a knock on the door from the angel of death. If I’d had the blood of a spring lamb to hand I’d have rushed out to mark the front door with it to ward him off.  I was on the computer doing a bit of work on my booky wook when the storm hit and I very quickly got off it. I didn’t fancy being fried to the keyboard if lightening struck. The book is coming along, but is turning out to be rather long.

Dick and I are on tenterhooks at the moment, and I don’t mean by way of some kinky game initiated by our own dear resident perv.  Shane is in a shit of a mood. Talk about crabby. We hardly dare fucking look at him for fear of being mauled. He’s been working flat out lately. He’s involved in a project for new housing. There’s big dollars involved. He’s worked hard for more than a year to buy the land and secure contracts, but commencement is being held up. The project has run into bother in the form of opposition from residents in the proposed area of building, so he’s been forced to attend lots of committee meetings to speak with the objectors (fucking interfering retirement brigade with nothing better to do) and try to reassure them that the new housing will not sully the area by being out of character. Thank god I’m not a businessman I couldn’t be arsed with all that hassle. Poor Shane. He had to go to a meeting last night after work and it dragged on until gone ten, he was knackered when he got home.

Ta very mucho to all who sent birthday greetings, wow, I can’t get over that folk remember a humble houseboy’s DOB. Some of you are under the impression I hit three oh. I haven’t, not quite yet. I have to say I’ve rather gone off birthdays after reading that most people are likely to die on or around their date of birth. Who researches these things and what’s their agenda? Party poopers.

The Diamond Jubilee street party was a bit of a damp squib and not just because of the weather. We were kind of lucky in that the rain held off for most of the time, but it was bitter cold and grey, not exactly celebration weather. We were all muffled up in warm clothing.  A couple of the people who were supposed to be helping dropped out giving lame excuses that amounted to them not being arsed because of the weather. Most of the people who turned out were from Eileen’s side of the road. The houses on her side are older ones, a couple are actually Victorian and they tend to have older residents with grandkids. The houses on our side are newer and tend to have younger ‘professional’ residents who haven’t yet had kids or don’t plan on ever having them. The professional lot let the side down. Those that did make a show didn’t really mix at all and ended up in little cliques boasting about their incomes and holidays abroad. The whole point of the fucking party was to break down barriers, bring people together and present an opportunity to get to know one another. What a waste of time and iced fairy cakes.

I was annoyed with Dick and Shane. They declared street parties were not their thing and went off with Leo for the day to celebrate the Jubilee by taking part in some sailing event at the marina, leaving me to represent our household alone. They’re not at home for most of the time so they have no real interest in getting to know the neighbours. Shane is of the opinion that folks like us are best keeping a low profile.

The six-year-old granddaughter of one of Eileen’s friends took a fancy to me. She was sweet, but it unnerved me a bit. I’m scared of kids. I don’t quite know what to do with them. Ava followed me round all day. She wanted me to hold her hand all the time and she kept saying my name. ‘Gilli, Gilli, watch me dance, run, skip, jump, Gilli, Gilli, I want another cake, drink, biscuit, lolly, Gilli play with me, Gilli, Gilli, Gilli.’ I ended up dizzy.

The party ended when a huge row erupted between a husband and wife from the professional contingent. They’d obviously been slipping gin or vodka into their fruit punch and it did nothing to ease what looked to be long standing marital tensions. They washed their dirty linen in public by hurling accusations at each other. It was embarrassing. It was a huge relief to pack up. Note to self: never get involved in a street party again. Just watch the event on the telly.

The sun has actually just broken the clouds. I’m going outside to hurl myself under it and catch a few rays. I’ll be getting rickets if I don’t soak up some sunshine soon. Ciao for now peeps! 



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