It's been quite difficult managing to do all the things I have to do at the moment. Something had to give and, in the balloon debate of my life, I have elected to eject sanity as not wanted on the voyage. It was a luxury I could ill afford. Most of this week has been spent sleeping, rubbing my head like a distressed bear in an Eastern European circus, walking up hills, walking down hills, feeling wildly, terribly anxious and polishing my shoes. I've started waxing the soles so I can slide home from the shops: "Skating with the stars"? Skating with the shopping, more like it. With a couple of French sticks I can ski home.
Have been feeling the lack of privacy very keenly this week. I like to pad around the house naked, my wet bits swaying like air-dried meat hanging from the eaves of a ChinaTown restaurant. To paraphrase John Shuttleworth "I can't go back to towel drying now!" I like to leave the door open while I'm in the bath and listen to classic detective serials on BBC Radio 7. Or read aloud in a variety of fruity voices from Robert Aickman's "The Unsettled Dust" (variations of James Robertson Justice's blistering baritone if I'm honest - I may yet produce an album called "Songs in the key of James Robertson Justice" (Billy Ocean on backing vox))
Sorry. Lost in my own parentheses there.
So yes. I like my ablutions JUST SO. And unfortunately I've been unable to swan around in the nip owing to the continued presence of other people in the house, people who might be offended by the sight of my naked glistening body. Which would be most people, and don't I well know it, but in the alleged privacy of my own home? Surely some respite! A man should be allowed to free-ball in the chilly environs of his own back-kitchen or pantry.*
Which is not to say I'm not grateful for these visitors. They help a great deal with every facet of our splintering lives. But it would be nice, every once in a while, for Kelly and I to pretend we were normal people.
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Everything in the flat is breaking. The phone doesnt work. Broadband and the internet wax and wane like moons playing peek-a-boo. The toilet flush hasn't worked for months and now the seat is falling off. The microphone in the computer has disappeared, reducing Skype to a sort of desperate mummery - a silent film filled with pantomime mugging and hand written caption cards. Lately the doorbell doesn't work, the curtains are falling down and today the kettle blew up. Given all of that it seems odd that most of our visitors only seem put out only by our not having a microwave!
I feed 'em! What do they want a pot noodle for?
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Speaking of cooking, I've finally been given my Mullan family "Secret Santa" present from Hugh Arthur, bearded Patriarch of the clan. It is a mustard yellow apron with the words: "John Best Son-in-Law Ever" printed on it.
I waited till Kelly and Kate had gone to bed before bawling my eyes out.
*I have a pantry. I dry my pants on it.