Friday 22nd March 2019

Dear Diary,

I thought it time to pop in and write a few words, if only to break silence. It crossed my mind to say I could write a book about recent events, but given my track record on book writing I think it best to keep my gob shut on that score. Suffice to say, life is still unsettled at the moment and so am I, to the point where I need distraction, but am too distracted to distract myself with any kind of meaningful activity. My mind feels clogged, as if all my thoughts are covered in syrup and sticking one to another. I’m doing bits of this and bits of that, but not giving one hundred percent to anything. It’s going to get me into trouble. I blame Brexit. What a fucking massive shit pile! No one knows what’s going on, least of all those arseholes in Parliament. Shane is furious over it. Economic uncertainty is not good for business. Given his grump level, it’s perhaps as well that he’s still working away a lot. Dick is also concerned with work matters, especially now he’s out on his own. As things stand, he’s currently working from home, a situation we are both trying to adapt to, not always with great success. I could write a book, blah blah...see above!

While I’m on, I want to say thank you to all who have emailed of late. Yes, to answer a question, I do read all mails I get, and I appreciate your continued interest. So, thanks again for sharing your thoughts.

Before I go, I’ll leave you with a small sketch regarding an incident this morning when I popped over to Eileen’s place for a coffee and a Dick break. Bless, I love the man, but having him home 24/7 is proving a challenge.

Over at Eileen’s place this morning:

“Eileen, shall I feed Horace? He’s staring at his food cupboard. I think he’s hungry.”

“Ignore him, Gilli. He was fed not an hour since. He’ll be sick if he has any more. Greedy creature.”

At that moment the phone in the hall rang and she went off to answer it, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Horace. The cat immediately lifted a hefty paw and placed it on the food store door. He then fixed me with a menacing glare backed up with a threatening mew. The message was clear: ‘feed me, houseboy, or I’ll rip your throat out.’

Dear Reader, I fed him. I was too scared not to. He wolfed down the packet of salmon chunks in jelly, as if he hadn’t seen grub for a month.

Eileen was right.

He was sick.

I know some of you keep cats and therefore I know you know just how dramatic a cat can be when it’s heaving its guts up. Horace’s entire body went into spasm, contorting like a Gremlin fed after midnight - he horked, borked, chundered and retched before regurgitating the food onto the floor. Of course, Eileen chose that very moment to return to the kitchen. She clocked the steaming pile of cat puke on her shiny vinyl and gave me a sorrowful look.

“Oh, Gilli, you fed him, didn’t you?”

“He made me do it, Eileen. I was coerced. You know how he bullies me.”

“Bad cat and bad boy!” She shook a finger between us.

Horace gave her a haughty look and trotted off out of the kitchen as if nothing had happened, leaving me to clean up his mess. The food had barely spent a minute in his digestive system, but it was slimy with gut juices and it stank. I felt my own gorge rise as I scooped up the mess with wet paper towels. Fortunately, I managed not to slip further in Eileen’s estimation by adding my own pile of vomit to her pristine flooring.

As Shane would say, I always have to bloody interfere where I have no business interfering, but that’s what makes me lovable, at least I tell myself so. Ciao for now, people.

Wednesday 27th March 2019

The scene in our house earlier this morning:

Dick, hands on hips. “You’re a snappy, graceless little bugger.”

“Yes I am, and is it any wonder with you dogging my heels every minute of the damn day! I don’t stand over you while you’re working.”

“Working? I haven’t seen you do anything yet. You haven’t even washed up the breakfast dishes.”

“I have a system. The washing up will get done when I’m ready to do it. I don’t tell you what order to work in. I’ve been changing the bed. I always change the bed on a Wednesday.”

“Not always.”

“Okay! Fine! I always change the bed on a Wednesday when I fucking feel like changing it on a Wednesday. My work, my way!”

“I’m one step away from wringing your neck, Gilli. All this because I asked what you were doing.”

“Well, don’t ask me then. You’re like that frigging dog from the ClearScore ad, always popping up and asking (mimics dog’s voice) ‘what doing?’ OW!” I let out a yelp, as Dick swiftly swiped his hand across my backside.

“Curb the cheek, young man. I won’t stand for your rudeness.”


“I doubt it, but I’ll accept your apology at face value because unlike you I’m at least willing to try and meet halfway. Make me a cup of coffee please, and bring it to my studio.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to snap that I wasn’t his secretary and if wanted me to act as such he’d have to frigging pay me the going rate. However, the look on his face was clear. He’d had enough houseboy sass for one morning, ta very much, and unless I wanted my arse smacking I’d better shut up and make coffee.

I swear I’m going to start building a patio this afternoon and Dick is going under it. I’m sure I can invent a good cover story for his disappearance.

In case you’re wondering, I’m still struggling to adapt to having him home all day. I feel like my space has been invaded and that my freedom has somehow been eroded. I liked my old routine. I liked waving the men folk off on a morning and welcoming them back in the evening. In between times the quasi mansion belonged to me. I was king of my own domain and now I feel I’ve been relegated to servant 24/7.

Its little things that drive me nuts, like him using the bathroom a moment after I’ve just cleaned it - he has this habit of leaving the hand towel bunched up after he’s used it, so it doesn’t dry properly. Who does that? He sits on the couch in the lounge when I’ve just plumped the cushions to my satisfaction. I mean what’s wrong with the man? Doesn’t he know that the cushions are meant to stay un-dented between the hours of eight and six? Plus his presence increases the dust yield. I also feel obliged to tell him when I’m going out and where I’m going, whereas before I just upped and went. It’s enough to drive a teetotal man to ice cream. Ben and Jerry will be noting an increase in revenue I can tell you.

Shane says I’ll get used to the situation in time (as in no choice) but I wonder if I ever will.  I guess, when it comes down to it, I’m a selfish, possessive little bastard. I like things my way.

Still, at least notions of selling up and changing location have been shelved. Things could be much worse. Shane could decide to work from home too, and also move his terrifying p.a. in full time, in which case suicide would be my only option.

Weather hasn’t been too bad in our portion of Brexit torn Britain, so I’ve been able to get out into the garden again. ZZ is on scene in his capacity as lawn trimmer and general garden helper and advisor (generally unwanted advice I might add.) Even this aspect of life hasn’t escaped the ‘Dick Affect.’ I was outraged to find Dick engaging with ZZ on Monday morning. I’d only turned my back for a minute and there he was, sitting at the kitchen table, in that easy way of his, chatting to ZZ like he’d known him all his life. I mean, come on, the cheek of it! After all, ZZ is my helper. Only I’m allowed to talk to him and exchange banter. Is nothing sacred?

Brexit rumbles on, and on. Like many people I’m stockpiling certain items in the event of a No Deal, especially toilet rolls. For God’s sake, three men in one house without benefit of toilet rolls? It just does not bear thinking about. The Den looks like a shrine to 4 ply quilted arse wipes (only the best in our house.)

I haven’t mentioned the stockpiling to the men folk, as they disapprove of such ‘hysterical’ nonsense. They won’t say that when the shops run dry and they have to beg me for a roll of the soft stuff or risk having to wipe their lordly arses on pages torn from The Financial Times. Hmm, I could use it as a negotiating tool in my ongoing quest for greater financial remuneration? Pay me more, or no bog roll.

I’m peckish and lunchtime looms so I’m off to make a sarnie. Yes, okay, I’ll be gracious and offer Dick a crumb. Never let it be said this houseboy bears a grumpy grudge. We’ll be fine, as long as he manages to curb his propensity to question my food choices.

“Really, Gilli, Monster Munch - in a sandwich? You need something healthier and more nutritious. I had no idea you ate this kind of rubbish during the day.”

The thing is, I like a Monster Munch sandwich from time to time and don’t even get me started on the subject of microwaving ice cream. Who in their right mind is prepared to wait for ice cream to soften at room temp? Not this greedy houseboy. Just nuke it for a few secs and get stuck in. Dick is so strait-laced at times.

Right, peeps, cover me, I’m going in.

May 2019

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