I had this great idea for a present-tense description of the past few weeks, taking you with me through the highs and lows, but I am absolutely exhausted – again – and have neither the time nor the energy to be creative or funny. Not that I ever am, etc, yeah, the door’s that way, don’t let it hit yer arse on the way out, and all that.
So here’s what happened:
Several unmitigated DIY disasters, including putting in waste pipe, re-laying floor, stink comes from waste pipe, pull up floor to find problem, discover problem lies elsewhere and is completely unrelated to the work I’d been doing, re-lay floor AGAIN – two weeks wasted.
Ancient stop cock = burst water main and no way to turn it off. Had to hammer the pipe in half to stop the mains-pressure cascade through the house. No access from the road to turn it off, had to buy a pipe freezing kit to help replace the stopcock. Pipe freezing kit promised 45 minutes of hold, lasted ten. Result: More high-pressure hilarity, and I no longer have a mobile phone. Here’s a learning I made: unlike the many hundreds of women I have slept with, mobile phones don’t like to get wet. Now I have to buy a new one.
Several disasters, none of which I claim responsibility for. I used to enjoy doing this stuff, you know. Knowing how my house is put together, there’s a comfort in it. This shit from the last few weeks though, it’s put me off for life.
It was Jack’s first birthday, that’s why I was under pressure to get the job done. Each evening I’d get home from work then do kitchen stuff until after midnight. Up again at seven and repeat the process. Zombification.
In the end it didn’t matter. We had no sink on the day of the party, and we survived. Water’s overrated anyway. You become very frugal when you don’t have running water. There was a day or two of whore’s bathing going on in our house – we went through some amount of Johnson’s baby wipes.
Jack’s birthday meant family visiting, which butted up against Linzi’s friends from Ireland visiting, and today her sister arrived up, because she’s looking after the kids for us when we go back to Ireland on Thursday for this wedding. You can see now why the blogging side of things has been a bit slack lately.
After we get back from Ireland, we have another wedding, followed by a christening, before the end of August. You’d swear we had a social life, the way we’ve been carrying on lately. I can’t wait for it all to be over. All this shite is only about half of it, but I’ll only want to hang myself if I go over everything. The main thing is, Linzi and I are still friends in spite of all the muck that we’ve churned up over the last month. Better still, we’re friends who have sex with each other, which is good news for me, and even better news for her.
I’ve been swimming too. I’m up to 30 lengths now. Not bad considering that a month ago it took me half an hour to swim six lengths and I was the closest to death I’ve been since ‘Nam. (Not that ‘Nam. I’m talking about Cornamona, that time with my dad and the fishing rod and the grease. It’s a long story, but you’ve probably already read about it in the papers.) I’m still shit though. If you can imagine tying Stephen Hawking to Christy Brown‘s left leg with a stout length of rope, then firing them both into a pool and saying off with ye lads, a pint if ye can make it to the other side, that’s the kind of flailing you get from me most days.
This wedding next Saturday: did I mention that I’m best man? Well listen: I’m best man at this wedding next Saturday. 300 guests or something mental like that. I’ve never done anything on this scale before, so I’m kind of shitting it. No – I’m fucking petrified. I haven’t even started on the speech (see above, no explanation required), and it’s only now that you’ve read this far that you realise I had an ulterior motive for updating the blog: I need help.
Give me your humour, people. I need to be hilarious without being offensive, risqué without being crude. I sometimes struggle with subtlety, as you’ll know just by reading this. You cunt.
Seriously, any wise words, good lines, or advice of any sort as I hurriedly prepare this speech would be an absolute godsend.
In other news, thank you all for your “what the fuck are you up to?” emails, and I apologise for not replying individually, but…you know. All that stuff. Some of you got Facebook stuff from me too – no, I haven’t abandoned blogging in favour of it, I just had a fit of adding shit to it, like I did with Bebo a few months back. I’ve been on Facebook since Christ was a cub scout, but I never did anything with my profile. Over the last couple of months, a few people asked me to be their friends, so I had a fit of activity the other night and put a bit on my profile. Nowt sinister, like. Sin é. It’s always there if I need it, but I won’t be making much more use of it at the moment, I don’t think.
In light of all the shite that’s going on recently, I’ve been having a bit of a think about things. What I’m doing over here, where would be best to raise the kids, those kinds of things. We’ve talked a lot about moving home over the past few weeks, even before this latest terrorist cock-up happened.
The only thing holding us back is the several hundred thousand Euro we need to buy a property in Galway. Can anyone spot me?
Since your blogs are banned for me at work, the BBC website is now my only friend. Reading the Have Your Say section on the situation, the general consensus among UK citizens seems to be “I say old chap, you’re more likely to be killed crossing the street than you are to be blown up by terrorists. Just live your life as normal.”
Fair enough. If we succumb to terror, they’ve won, and all that bollocks. Good old British stiff upper
lad lip. I’m not sure how to “live as normal” though. Given the media saturation, you can’t help but have the attack colour your outlook on things. Is it a coincidence that until now Scotland’s been untouched, yet the very week a Scot becomes Prime Minister, this happens?
Frankly I think people who say it’s not impacting them in the slightest are either full of shit or are a biteen delusional. The fact that they have to crow about how they are completely unaffected by terrorism, on a message board about terrorism, well, face it lads, if it wasn’t affecting us, there would be no message board. There would be no discussion.
Today, as I trudged typical through Monday morning, I passed this Asian-looking lad standing at the boot of his car. There was a gas cylinder and cardboard boxes of…something, in the boot. The car was parked outside a culturally significant building in Glasgow city centre. A week ago, I would not have glanced twice at this. This morning, I took his reg and reported him to the police. Was it that repeated-to-the point-of-nonsensifying word, vigilance, or was it plain old first-drag-of-a-joint-since-college paranoia? I still don’t know. What swung it for me was the thought that if something did happen and I’d not said anything, it’d plague me. Guilt, y’know. We Irish are brilliant at it.
Of course, right now, rather than feeling the guilt of saying nothing, I’m feeling the guilt of causing some likely-innocent chap to endure a shitload of harrassment from the police, predicated on nothing more than him being Asian and having a gas canister in his boot. The ability to wrangle guilt out of any given situation no matter what decision you make takes years of Catholic dogma to achieve, and should only be carried out by professionals in a controlled environment. Do not try this at home.
People keep making that reference: “you know, you’re more likely to be knocked down by a bus”, and so forth. What the fuck that has to do with the price of bacon, I don’t know. One thing is an accident, the other is a bunch of mental cunts intent on killing anyone who doesn’t subscribe to their fucked-up ideology. And that, seemingly, includes most Muslims.
Honestly lads, it was enough to make me pack my bags and move home, until I remembered that statistically, I’m 30,000 times more likely to be beaten to death by horrible stinky knackers in Galway than I am to be killed in a terrorist attack in Glasgow.
So what would you have done today? Reported it, or said nothing? In all seriousness, I do feel a bit foolish for doing it, but I don’t regret it.
I’ll tell you what too, the police cop I gave my statement to was a bit of alright. She was giving me the eye bigtime, but I gave it back – it was all sticky with eye-juice. Ugh. Still, I might give her a call and see if she’s free this weekend – I’ve got a stag weekend down in Newcastle that she’d be welcome to “bust”. Heh.
Doing this, to be exact:
Every waking minute outside of work (and playing the Xbox), I’ve been tearing the house apart. All so that some day soon, we have one of these downstairs:
I had to put my hand into some poo to connect up a pipe the other day. I meant to take a photo of it, but Linzi wouldn’t let me hold the camera while I had shit on my hands.
Once the toilet’s done, I have to put in a new kitchen. The fun never stops. Ara sure, it’ll all be worth it once it’s done, everyone keeps saying. They never offer to help though, the bastards.
You get training for everything these days. Just a week in the job, and I’d already been trained in Fraud Awareness, Complaints Handling, Data Protection, and Enormous Lad Management. Not everyone gets ELM, but they said it was obligatory for me, because of the incredible size, weight and glistening shininess of my mickey.
Shut it, the rash is clearing up. Those antibiotics are doing the trick nicely.
You get certificates for them all. Certificates are important. Certificates imply that you really are making progress, you’re moving up in the world. You can display them at your desk, just like everyone else. I don’t.
Certificates convey responsibility. Authorised tea-maker. “Successfully passed…” on a certificate translates to “A wide experience of…” on your CV. CV means spicy resumé.
And there you are. You’re an individual. You’re WINNER! Just like everyone else.
You know what you don’t need training or a certificate for? Being a parent. Parents should be certified. CAPABLE. Nothing fascist, now. Everyone’s entitled to breed, yeah. Not everyone remembers that breeding produces kids though. The certificate would state that you are fully aware that you are responsible for your child’s welfare, and you’ll get your fucking bollocks, or perhaps ovaries, sliced out if you try to pass the buck.
See, if I’d had some parent training, I’d’ve been more prepared the other day when Jack shoved his hand into a warm, freshly-brewed poo. His own, I might add.
Parent training would teach you how to react in those situations. If I’d had my training, I bet I’d have reacted with something besides shrieks of horror as I watched him flailing his arms about, poo slathering his hair and the changing mat and the floor and a book that ended up so covered in faeces that I had no choice but to give it to charity.
Have you ever been painting, and a bit somehow gets on the sole of your shoe, and before you know it, you’ve accidentally planted paintprints halfway around the house? That’s what this was like. Except with poo.
There it was, the pooey arm, slippery and wriggling in my hands, like a puppy being held underwater, as I manhandled Jack into the bath and hosed him down. He wasn’t happy. I was fucking traumatised, trying to make myself have one of those out of body experiences that hippies and Tom Cruise are always yammering on about. Now I understand what my dad must’ve been going through that time when I was a baby and my mother came home to find him holding me upside-down at the sink, hosing down my hole with the powerful jet of the cold-water tap.
Dad, I forgive you.
Please note: If you haven’t got the new Queens of the Stone Age album, stand over in the corner and be ashamed. Go on now, git, pardner, or I’ll set The Swearing Lady on you.
No, not that corner. The one with the poo in it. I can’t bring myself to clean it up.
By the way, thanks for giving this place a pulse when all I wanted to do was rip its heart out. Sincerely. Although I haven’t been able to be on as much as I’d like, I have been reading every one of your comments, and I really appreciate that you take the time to leave them. So there.
Linzi’s always had a healthy appetite. It’s something I find attractive in a lady. If I’m sitting there horsing into an enormous steak (mmm…meat), the last thing I want to see is someone sitting opposite me pecking at lettuce and pushing spuds around their plate. Food helps us bond.
In fact, our first date was in a restaurant. “Would you like to go out for food some time?” I asked her. “Food?” she replied, “That’s my favourite!”
We knew we were meant to be together when we ordered a side of onion rings that came out on a spike three feet high, with the rings towered on it like one of those Fisher-Price stacker things.
Together we scoffed the lot, and I knew I’d met my soul mate. I almost came at the table.
Linzi recalls the first time we went to the cinema (The Blair Witch Project, back when it was just released in the US and everyone thought it was real). She missed whole chunks of the film, so intently was she staring at me – aghast and admiring at once – as I robotically, hand to mouth, devoured a full large-size popcorn. This was in America, remember, where a large portion of anything would feed 30 Ethiopians for a fortnight.
You can imagine my delight, therefore, upon arriving home yesterday evening, to be reminded that it was Linzi’s mother’s 70th birthday and we were all going out for something to eat. “Food!” I cried, “My favourite!”
And a fine meal it was too.
Until the end. Turns out Linzi had to make up a £15 shortfall in the bill because, ahem, certain other people hadn’t chipped in for things like coffee, garlic bread and the like. Okay, it’s only fifteen quid, but it’s the principle of the thing, innit?
Pah! Pah, I say!
The family in happier times (ie five minutes before the bill arrived)
I’m not sure of my bro-in-law’s feelings on net anonymity, but I didn’t want to ask his permission to post this, so I just spray-painted their heads. They’re all very attractive though, underneath the black masks of doom.
Note to Manuel: If you want to drastically reduce your chances of getting a tip, make sure you cut my first-born child out of the photo we ask you to take.
I can’t believe the response from my begging yesterday – over £130 has been contributed by you lot to Linzi’s fund for the Race for Life. This generosity is staggering and is appreciated more than I can convey. Linzi gives hugs and all that girly crap to everyone. Thank you so much.
Later that same evening: £233 from blog readers! Jaysis lads. I might start up a “Pay for a holiday for Kav” fund.
I’m a nice guy. Always have been. Ask my friends or co-workers to describe me, and I guarantee you one of the first adjectives they’ll use will be “nice”. I’m the guy women can talk to, open up to. I’m like a brother to them, you see. Non-threatening. One of the lads, but also a sensitive bastard. A shoulder to cry on for girls in between fuck-buddies. Oh yes, yes, tell me again about how terrible it is for you being with that guy, I don’t have any feelings for you myself at all. No, of course I’m not thinking about taking you from behind here in the college library, I really am just here for you as a friend.
When the summer of 1999 rolled around, I had lived out my teenage years and was sick and tired of always being Nice Guy Kavvy. By that time, I had somehow managed to bag myself a lovely girlfriend, and was having the time of my life at university. Several months before, a bunch of us got loans and spent a fortune on J1 Visas so we could spend a debauched summer in the US. Though I didn’t know it, and only came to realise it as I thought about this post, I spent the months leading up to that summer working myself up to burying Nice Guy Kav and playing the role of Kav the Bastard with as many
slappers girls as possible.
As soon as I left my tear-soaked girl and family at Departures in Shannon Airport, I was intent on reinventing myself for an America that knew nothing of me. No small-town preconceptions to hold me back because nobody cared where I was from or what I’d done; yes, despite cosmetic pretensions of big-city savoir-faire in the gaping jaws of the Celtic Tiger, Galway was still a small town at heart, a shadowy beast that thrived on gossip and nepotism. Still does. I, though, could be whoever and whatever I wanted, in the land of the free and the home of the slave.
You can’t reinvent yourself overnight. You start small. We sat one warm salty evening on the Boardwalk in Wildwood and all I did was say hello to some girls. Unremarkable, except in my head, where I’d had to work myself up to it for half an hour.
It helped that American girls were so forthcoming. In my (limited) experience, Irish women are painfully reticent in expressing their interest, so I was constantly left uncertain of their desires and motives. Were they into me, or just having a laugh? No such worries with the Americans.
“Damn girl, he is hot! Hey baby!” a girl proclaimed one day as I wandered to work in my gay khaki shorts/jeans shirt uniform. I said nothing, because truthfully, it took me a while to process that it was me they were talking about. Made my day, that did.
You don’t need a blow-by-blow (heh) account – suffice to say that my first six weeks as I-really-don’t-give-a-shite-about-your-feelings Kav was very successful. I two-timed. I even three-timed. I caused girls to argue about me. One of them did that head movement/fingerwag combo that black women do on Ricki Lake. It was fucking brilliant. I was almost cocky.
Then I met Linzi, and she stripped me back to myself with a single look. I felt foolish and vulnerable in front of her, like a man playing himself on stage. I was me but not me. To bring myself to talk to her, I needed the confidence of my new persona, but to get her to like me, I had to be myself. I spotted her on the day she started work on the pier, and found her a few nights later in a club. I was sober, having just finished my shift, but I took the plunge regardless and started chatting to her. I was secretly delighted when she wouldn’t let things go further than a snog.
After she blanked me a couple of days later on the pier, ostensibly because she wanted nothing to do with me, when in reality she was just paranoid because she felt she looked a state, I resolved that if I didn’t say something to her, I’d always regret it. The next time we met, I took her aside and told her I was into her and wanted to see her. I said we only had the summer, so there was no time to fuck about playing games. She agreed. We’ve been together since.
She fell in love with me, and for a while, I was really afraid that she’d fallen in love with someone else. It was exhausting, you see, keeping up the facade. It was a hell of a lot of fun, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t even make it last the full summer, yet somehow, Linzi looked past the farts, the scratching, the burps, the random squawks, the odd habits like readwalking, the unintentional rudeness, the temper, the terrible drunken states I got myself into and had to be rescued out of, the obsession with her arse, all these things she’s managed to accept, and she’s stuck with me. Which is good.
Having spent my teens wanting to be someone else, and then a summer being someone I hardly recognised, I find it odd that these days, in spite of all my faults and worries, I don’t really mind being me. I’ll never set the world on fire, but nice is alright, mostly.
You might recall me posting back in February that Linzi is doing the Race for Life in aid of Cancer Research. The run is this Thursday, and she’s not only met her £200 target, she’s exceeded it, and is currently sitting with £277 sponsorship. We’re hoping she’ll be able to bring this up to at least £300, so here I am out begging to my readers. If you’ve got even two or three quid to spare, think how good you’ll feel about yourself knowing it’s going to a worthy cause like this.
If you are willing to sponsor her, go here. There’s a short sign-up page (there are boxes to tick/untick so you won’t get spammed), but overall it takes no more than five minutes, from start to finish, to donate. Thanks.
Many of you know I like to play up my penniless youth. Though I never really went hungry (except between the hours of 7pm and 6pm), we often had to do without the gadgets of the day. Where some kids had water pistols, I had a stick. Where some had footballs, I had a rock. Many of my friends had bicycles; I had a stick. It was awful hard keeping up with them.
I jest, of course. Things were never that dire.
When Nintendo was all the rage (imagine, the old 8-bit NES once cost more than the PS2 does now), when you were nothing if you didn’t have the Mario Bros/Duck Hunt cartridge and the light gun, I had to content myself by playing a real-life version of Duck Hunt. I called it Duck Shoot. See what I did there?
No blocky 2-D pixellated images and dodgy sound effects in my game, mind you. This was the real deal. Duck Shoot involved my sisters walking back and forth in front of my granny’s garden wall while I belted a football at them. If I hit them, which happened often, since I was usually no more than five or six feet away, they had to make the sound of a duck getting killed. It was a great game, enjoyed by everyone, but especially me.
Here’s how a typical game of Duck Shoot might start:
“C’mon we play some Duck Shoot, girls.”
“Nooooooo Kav, our legs are still bruised from last week.”
“Come on ye fuckin spastics or I’ll kill ye!”
“We’ll tell Granny if you kill us.”
At this point it may have been necessary for me to approach a sister with arm raised and fist clenched, to emphasise how much I wanted to play the game. The vehemence of my desire to play was usually clarified by me saying
“Line up against that fuckin wall or I’ll hop yer fuckin head off the kerb, ya little spastic.”
My sisters and I would then enjoy a sibling bonding session where I lashed a football at them as hard as I could, while they did their best to dodge it. They were, pardon the expression, sitting ducks.
One typical summer’s day, I was, as usual, hanging around outside my granny’s house kicking a ball. (A huge swathe of my childhood consisted of kicking a ball outside my granny’s house, outside my own house, or with the lads, on a decrepit pitch in Galway called “The Plots”.) At the top of the road I spotted my sister Lorna skipping down the road towards granny’s. Scowling with disdain – at that age, the mere sight of my sisters prompted this emotion, even if they’d done nothing to provoke me – I waited until she was passing me, and then gently, with a touch Liam Brady’d have been jealous of, I slotted the ball between her legs.
For a long, quiet moment, she flew. I’d say she travelled about six feet or so, then hit the pavement knees first. Her momentum dragged her along the path another five or six feet before she collapsed in a glut of screams and blood. Her legs at the knees looked like someone had take a potato peeler to them.
My Granny was standing right next to me when I did it. It’s the only time she ever hit me. I remember her words as she struck me: “You horrible, evil little boy!”. I ran into the house and locked myself into the toilet and cried, riddled with shame.
The next two weeks were peppered with comments about how Lorna’d never be able to be a model with scars like that – this despite that she’d never before expressed the desire to be a model – and what a little bastard I was. Who knows if she’d have gone on to be a model or not? The point was that what I did to her had cut off that choice to her (or at least it seemed to at the time), and I still burn when I think of it.
I don’t think we played Duck Shoot again after that.
What about you? Ever done something awful and irreversible to your siblings?
Have a splendid weekend.
Hi. How have you been? I’ve been shit.
Here is a quick slice of the past week. It’s crap. Go and have a nice cup of tea and some rich tea instead of reading this whinging dirge.
Wednesday, home from work, straight to bed. Sleep all day, alternating between shivers and sweats. Get no sympathy from Linzi because Jack is a nightmare, suffering from conjunctivitis and tonsilitis, and he’s taking up all her time.
Thursday’s not much better. Linzi’s sick too, run down and hacking, but she’s not yet as sick as me, so she looks after the kids. I wallow in self-pity and hold my head. Fucking torture. Lazy GPs are cunts. Fluids and plenty of bed-rest my hole, I want fucking DRUGS.
Friday, a lot better, but now Linzi’s ruined after looking after everyone. We cancel my birthday night babysitter, resigned to the knowledge that L won’t be well enough to leave the house.
Saturday, my birthday. I wake to find that my lad is not in Linzi’s mouth, and so I know the day is not going to go to plan. Linzi has been so sick/swamped that she has not had time to get me a present. However, proving that she is extremely thoughtful and normally very well-prepared for things, I get a present from the kids, which she had originally bought as my father’s day gift, several weeks back. She feels terrible for not being able to get me anything. I shush her and say it’s okay. I play the Xbox. Her parents come over. We eat cake. We sit in and Linzi goes to bed early. I play more Xbox. I do not have sex.
Sunday: Linzi stays in bed, floored with her illness. I bring her breakfast. I look after the kids all day and do the housework. No big deal, true. However, the anticipated weekend was one of ample sex and not raising my arms to do more than sip another tasty beverage or crunch another salt-laden snack. This was what was promised, dammit! Management of expectations, we call it in the wanky world of suits. And my expectations were dashed, god dammit! DASHED!
Yesterday I spent working on decking and putting together flat-pack furniture. Sigh. Today I am back at work, and it’s almost a relief.
Linzi and I haven’t had a night out together since January, so we were both really looking forward to Saturday. January, for Christ’s sake! Four months! Know why it’s been so long? Have a guess.
It’s because we don’t think a two-year old is yet capable of looking after herself. Don’t mention babysitters to me, as her family have let us down more times than I could mention, so it’s either stay in and look after the most important things in our life, or piss off down the road for a bite to eat, and that’s not really an option, is it?
As a parent, I know that it is imfuckingpossible to look after your kid around the clock, but you have to be pragmatic about things. You don’t boil the kettle and then leave it in the playpen. You don’t fuck off to the pub, or restaurant, or whatever, and leave your kids alone, defenceless in a strange place. Parenting’s risk management. I’m not trying to point the finger, because I know that their own private torture is worse than any of us could imagine (it brings tears to my eyes just to think of something happening to my kids), but Twenty’s right (read the comments) – I have yet to hear any sort of statement on the parent’s behalf saying something along the lines of “Holy shit, what were we thinking? How on earth could we have been so stupid? Hey, other parents! Don’t be stupid like we were, look after your children.” Are they even thinking this, or do they think what they did was acceptable?
I really hope they find that little girl safe so that the parents can spend the rest of their lives making their idiocy up to her.
Also, I really need a night out with my wife. And a shag. Yes. A shag.
Sometimes, Linzi has occasion to be cruel to me. This is because I’m an irritating bastard. Typically, I arrive home from work around six and she’s in the kitchen, harassed after a day spent looking after the kids, and making dinner. That’s right, we’re very traditional. After saying hello to the kids with an enthusiasm I don’t really feel, I go into the kitchen, give her a kiss and slip my hand down her trousers. As soon as my fingers come into contact with arse-cheek skin, I begin to spasm and twitch uncontrollably, and my face contorts as I squeeze and say “Oh yeeaaah! Gimme the juice!” or a similar variant.
“The juice” is her arse, and I do this every single day.
She tolerates it with good nature for the most part, except occasionally when I might pinch instead of squeeze, or when I get a notion and try to initiate sex in the middle of cooking. She endearingly refers to my spasms and facial tics when I grab a hould of her as “the rat face”.
The rat face is a constant feature in our life. We’ll be sitting watching tv, and if she looks at me, chances are I will scrunch up my eyes, wrinkle my nose, and pucker my lips and make “eeeee! eeeee!” noises. I think these noises are rather rat-like, and they amuse me greatly. Linzi usually looks at me with one eyebrow arched (I’ve always been jealous that she can do that and I can’t. It’s very sexy.) and says “Kav, stop doing The Rat Face.”
Her saying that is my cue to lean in really close and contort my face even more, emphasising my rattishness by making my ears stick out and increasing the volume of my squeals. I’ll do this for a bit until I can see she’s losing patience, and then I’ll stop and massage her feet for a while to compensate for being an irritating prick.
After I’ve massaged her feet, to make sure she isn’t getting too complacent, I might give her foot a good squaw – squaw is her word for an intense and vigorous massage – to make sure she hasn’t forgotten the effort I’m putting in. Then we will watch tv for a while, in silence.
Shortly before bed, I might look at her and say “Jesus, I have a serious fuckin load built up for you. I might need to release it tonight.”
Her usual response to this foreplay is “fuck off, you disgust me”. This is what I mean about her being cruel. What a waste of an evening’s foot massage.
Erin’s on a daddy trip these days, which is great for me. “Who made the world?” Linzi asks her.
“Daddy”, she replies. And so it goes.
“Who do you love?”
“Who else do you love?”
“And who else?”
“Um, the telly.”
Poor Linzi’s not getting a look in. It goes in cycles like this, temporary favourites. Next week it’ll be her again.
That photo was taken a couple of weeks ago, while I was working in the back garden. Not a great photo, but just look at the way she’s looking at me. And to think, some day I’m going to fuck her head up and she’ll probably hate my guts. Best to enjoy this while it lasts.
Oh yeah, the contract arrived. Thank jeebus for that, I was starting to get worried. A few bits and pieces I’m challenging means I probably won’t be able to say anything until Monday. After that, I promise to shut the hell up about it and try to post something amusing.
Now, to compose that resignation letter…
Have a good weekend. May the fourth be with you.