Tuesday 19th May 2026
Dear Diary,
Just dropping in on this dreary Tuesday to fill a few minutes while I consume a cup of coffee and a banana flavour Jammie Dodger. They were on offer, so I felt obliged to grab a pack to do a taste test.
I have a horrible suspicion that this summer is going to be a bit of a dud, marred by cloud and rain, like today. Prove me wrong, weather genie.
So had a chat with my neurologist this morning. It was nothing to worry about, just one of my regular fizzy brain checkups, and nothing to do with my lodger in the loft, though naturally he was discussed. Neurosurgery and neurology are essentially different disciplines. The lodger isn’t causing bother at the moment. I’m getting used to the idea he’s there lurking around. Mr Ryall has been very reassuring from the start, more so than the neurosurgeon I saw, whom I thought was snotty and dismissive. I said as much to Mr Ryall, and he snorted and said neurosurgeons think they’re Gods and have an inflated sense of their own importance. He assured me he was keeping a close eye on the ball (aka the lodger) and if he thought for a moment he was getting uppity he’d get onto the neurosurgeon himself, and demand a fresh evaluation. After all, when it came to my brain, he was the expert. No one knew my brain as well as he did, certainly not some strutting neurosurgeon who had but glanced at it. I got the distinct impression he’d relish going head-to-head with the guy. Maybe there’s some history of professional rivalry between them? Still, nice to know Mr Ryall is firmly in my corner.
Dick has had his carpal tunnel op, and after all the fuss, declared it to be an absolute doddle. He said he didn’t feel a thing during the op. His hand is obviously a bit sore now, as the incision heals. It’s on the heel of his hand, so it makes it a bit awkward doing daily tasks. He has to keep the wound covered and dry until the stitches come out. Watching him having a shower wearing nothing but a rubber glove sealed with an elastic band is proving entertaining, and sexy in a perverse and strange kind of way. I’m having to butter and marmalade his toast on a morning because he can’t comfortably manipulate the knife yet. Sounds easy, you say? Not when you consider Dick has what amounts to a fucking marmalade obsession. It has to be spread just right, or he gets crabby. We’ve had words.
Dear Diary,
Just dropping in on this dreary Tuesday to fill a few minutes while I consume a cup of coffee and a banana flavour Jammie Dodger. They were on offer, so I felt obliged to grab a pack to do a taste test.
I have a horrible suspicion that this summer is going to be a bit of a dud, marred by cloud and rain, like today. Prove me wrong, weather genie.
So had a chat with my neurologist this morning. It was nothing to worry about, just one of my regular fizzy brain checkups, and nothing to do with my lodger in the loft, though naturally he was discussed. Neurosurgery and neurology are essentially different disciplines. The lodger isn’t causing bother at the moment. I’m getting used to the idea he’s there lurking around. Mr Ryall has been very reassuring from the start, more so than the neurosurgeon I saw, whom I thought was snotty and dismissive. I said as much to Mr Ryall, and he snorted and said neurosurgeons think they’re Gods and have an inflated sense of their own importance. He assured me he was keeping a close eye on the ball (aka the lodger) and if he thought for a moment he was getting uppity he’d get onto the neurosurgeon himself, and demand a fresh evaluation. After all, when it came to my brain, he was the expert. No one knew my brain as well as he did, certainly not some strutting neurosurgeon who had but glanced at it. I got the distinct impression he’d relish going head-to-head with the guy. Maybe there’s some history of professional rivalry between them? Still, nice to know Mr Ryall is firmly in my corner.
Dick has had his carpal tunnel op, and after all the fuss, declared it to be an absolute doddle. He said he didn’t feel a thing during the op. His hand is obviously a bit sore now, as the incision heals. It’s on the heel of his hand, so it makes it a bit awkward doing daily tasks. He has to keep the wound covered and dry until the stitches come out. Watching him having a shower wearing nothing but a rubber glove sealed with an elastic band is proving entertaining, and sexy in a perverse and strange kind of way. I’m having to butter and marmalade his toast on a morning because he can’t comfortably manipulate the knife yet. Sounds easy, you say? Not when you consider Dick has what amounts to a fucking marmalade obsession. It has to be spread just right, or he gets crabby. We’ve had words.
Well, my coffee is drunk and my Jammie Dodger consumed. I must say I was underwhelmed by its flavour. There are better Dodgers out there. I’ll give it four out of ten. Must shift my arse, I’ve got a mountain of ironing to catch up on. Take care, peeps.
Tuesday 26th May 2026
It’s celibate weather in the quasi mansion. I enjoy sticky sweaty sex, but not when I’m sticky and sweaty to start with. Skin turns into Velcro and its agony when you try to peel away from your sticky sweaty partners. Us Brits don’t have the infrastructure for sex in high temperatures. Our houses tend not to have air con. An electric fan from Argos just doesn’t cut it when the temperature hits 30 Celsius. On the bright side our mini heat wave is likely to be short-lived, and we’ll be digging out the winter duvet when rain, hail and snow descend again, all on the same day.
With it being Bank Holiday weekend there was talk about going away, but we decided against it. With it being hot you could guarantee that wherever you went would be jam packed with people and the roads would be hell, so we stayed put. Leo and Mike joined us as houseguests. We pretty much spent the weekend lounging around the garden and the summerhouse. I bought a croquet set and garden quoits some time back, to some ribbing, but actually both are good fun to play when the weather is fine and drinks are flowing (minus the alcohol in my case.)
I did the catering, with help from Leo, even though I didn’t want it. There was an altercation when he asked why there was snotty frogspawn on top of the Eton Mess I’d made for dessert on Sunday. It was a mango variation that I’d topped off with lots of passion fruit. To my annoyance, once he’d said it, I couldn’t unsee what he was getting at. It did look like a layer of snotty frogspawn, or like someone with a severe congestion problem had sneezed on it. Talk about off-putting. I accused him of trying to sabotage me because, unlike, him, I was willing to try something different. Shane broke up the argument by sticking a glass of champagne in Leo’s hand and steering him out into the garden before I could lay hands on a meat cleaver. I solved the problem by grating up chocolate and using it to top the topping, and disguise it. It tasted delicious. It was dark chocolate so it offset the sweetness of the mango and passion fruit very nicely. On the plus side, I beat Leo at quoits and would have beaten him at croquet had not Mike sussed I was cheating and turned the garden hose on me. He’s mean like that. I was drenched from head to foot.
It was a fun weekend, hard work, but worth it. Leo and Mike departed this morning and Shane and Dick have returned to work. With the weather being so warm it means I’ve already got all the bedsheets and extra towels we used washed and out on the line to dry in the sunshine.
In other news, Dick’s hand is healing nicely, and he’s able to use it in moderation without too much discomfort. He’s removed all dressings now. The incision site looks a bit like a zip. There are still stitches evident, sticking out of his skin like spider legs. I said that to him and he was horrified. Honestly, I thought he was going to faint. The stitches are supposed to dissolve, but I have my doubts. The ones left in look pretty robust to me. I reckon he’ll have to have them snipped out when he has his post op check next week. I won’t say that to him though, in case he really does faint. He has delicate sensibilities for a kinky bloke who enjoys extreme bondage.
ZZ is back helping with the garden. On arrival this morning he had a bit of a moan about the lawn at the back, saying he could see where we’d ‘bruised’ it playing our silly games, and just when he’d got it in pristine condition. I ignored him, he’s never happier than when he’s complaining. He calmed down once he’d had a mug of coffee and a handful of custard creams. To keep him sweet, I held off saying that actually the pristine lawns are down to my hard work. Sometimes you have to be the bigger man, he said magnanimously.
I can’t decide what we should have for dinner this evening. It’s too hot to be slaving over a hot stove, but my two get crabby if they don’t have their carnivorous appetites served. I might do fillet steak with new potatoes and salad. Fillet steak is easy to cook. It spends more time resting than it does actually frying. Add a slug of peppercorn sauce, and you have a meal fit for a king. Yum. I’ve made myself hungry now. Time for lunch, I think. Ciao for now.
It’s celibate weather in the quasi mansion. I enjoy sticky sweaty sex, but not when I’m sticky and sweaty to start with. Skin turns into Velcro and its agony when you try to peel away from your sticky sweaty partners. Us Brits don’t have the infrastructure for sex in high temperatures. Our houses tend not to have air con. An electric fan from Argos just doesn’t cut it when the temperature hits 30 Celsius. On the bright side our mini heat wave is likely to be short-lived, and we’ll be digging out the winter duvet when rain, hail and snow descend again, all on the same day.
With it being Bank Holiday weekend there was talk about going away, but we decided against it. With it being hot you could guarantee that wherever you went would be jam packed with people and the roads would be hell, so we stayed put. Leo and Mike joined us as houseguests. We pretty much spent the weekend lounging around the garden and the summerhouse. I bought a croquet set and garden quoits some time back, to some ribbing, but actually both are good fun to play when the weather is fine and drinks are flowing (minus the alcohol in my case.)
I did the catering, with help from Leo, even though I didn’t want it. There was an altercation when he asked why there was snotty frogspawn on top of the Eton Mess I’d made for dessert on Sunday. It was a mango variation that I’d topped off with lots of passion fruit. To my annoyance, once he’d said it, I couldn’t unsee what he was getting at. It did look like a layer of snotty frogspawn, or like someone with a severe congestion problem had sneezed on it. Talk about off-putting. I accused him of trying to sabotage me because, unlike, him, I was willing to try something different. Shane broke up the argument by sticking a glass of champagne in Leo’s hand and steering him out into the garden before I could lay hands on a meat cleaver. I solved the problem by grating up chocolate and using it to top the topping, and disguise it. It tasted delicious. It was dark chocolate so it offset the sweetness of the mango and passion fruit very nicely. On the plus side, I beat Leo at quoits and would have beaten him at croquet had not Mike sussed I was cheating and turned the garden hose on me. He’s mean like that. I was drenched from head to foot.
It was a fun weekend, hard work, but worth it. Leo and Mike departed this morning and Shane and Dick have returned to work. With the weather being so warm it means I’ve already got all the bedsheets and extra towels we used washed and out on the line to dry in the sunshine.
In other news, Dick’s hand is healing nicely, and he’s able to use it in moderation without too much discomfort. He’s removed all dressings now. The incision site looks a bit like a zip. There are still stitches evident, sticking out of his skin like spider legs. I said that to him and he was horrified. Honestly, I thought he was going to faint. The stitches are supposed to dissolve, but I have my doubts. The ones left in look pretty robust to me. I reckon he’ll have to have them snipped out when he has his post op check next week. I won’t say that to him though, in case he really does faint. He has delicate sensibilities for a kinky bloke who enjoys extreme bondage.
ZZ is back helping with the garden. On arrival this morning he had a bit of a moan about the lawn at the back, saying he could see where we’d ‘bruised’ it playing our silly games, and just when he’d got it in pristine condition. I ignored him, he’s never happier than when he’s complaining. He calmed down once he’d had a mug of coffee and a handful of custard creams. To keep him sweet, I held off saying that actually the pristine lawns are down to my hard work. Sometimes you have to be the bigger man, he said magnanimously.
I can’t decide what we should have for dinner this evening. It’s too hot to be slaving over a hot stove, but my two get crabby if they don’t have their carnivorous appetites served. I might do fillet steak with new potatoes and salad. Fillet steak is easy to cook. It spends more time resting than it does actually frying. Add a slug of peppercorn sauce, and you have a meal fit for a king. Yum. I’ve made myself hungry now. Time for lunch, I think. Ciao for now.