Friday 1st November 2019

Dear Diary,

Well-well, look who it ain’t! It’s me, against my better judgement. I miss you my old pal, and had a sudden yen to pop in for a brief visit. I don’t know if anyone still visits your pages, but no matter. In the beginning there was only you and I. Perhaps we have come full circle and that’s fine, calming in fact. We shall entertain each other.

In brief, life is much as it was before. I regularly get on the men folks’ tits, as is my duty. I confess to being depressed for a while, more so after giving up being a ‘diarist.’ It was fun and I loved scribbling my gibberish, but the fun began to wear thin and I began to feel threatened and stressed, and that’s why I had to stop. When something you love begins to turn toxic you owe it to yourself to step away. On the upside, being less of a gobshite via the diary has meant spending more time working on Revs. Several more portions have been written and I’m more hopeful of bringing it to completion.

Halloween has been and gone and Bonfire night beckons, not that I’ll see the fireworks, but I have learned to derive pleasure from just listening to them. Once November the Fifth is over the race to Christmas begins, and, here in Blighty at least, another General Election is also on the cards. What a festive dampener. Don’t even get me started on politics and the bunch of bastards trying to secure votes so they can run what’s left of the country into the sewer. British streets are already awash with MP’s lumbering around like Zombies from a B movie, dribbling lies and false promises from decaying lips. In my humble opinion, they’re all self-servers who don’t give a shit about this country and its people. We’re all ruled by a small elite who care more about their personal fortunes than they do about humanity. I despise the lot of them. By the way, President Trump, just in case you're reading this, with respect, please keep your snout out of our political trough. We have enough grunting pigs of our own and don’t need you adding your shit to the sty. The UK electorate are confused enough as it is.

Well, dear diary, on that sweet and gentle note, I’ll love you and leave you once again. A virgin jar of peanut butter calls to me from the kitchen cupboard and I must away and deflower it in the name of lunch. Stay safe. Perhaps we'll catch up again one of these days. XX


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