Dear Diary,
It’s day 490 billion of the human strangles epidemic, and the great news is that they’re getting needles shoved into them all with more frequency than my buttocks when Herman has a new swimming pool to pay for. The bad news is that while my mother has the body of a 102-year-old, and the mentality of a toddler deprived of its dummy, she is in fact only 21 (plus a bit), so is very low down the list to have it shoved into her. And so (in fairness like the rest of the country) we remain having our cross to bear. Or in my case just a cross bear…
It was her spawn day this week, so much of my Facebook page was taken up with people wishing her a happy day — she has me in her life peoples, EVERY day is a happy one — and a very brave punt at her age. I can confirm that there are things older than her — you know, like trees and things — but not many. She’s so old her national insurance number is 0. Or is that the balance of her bank account? I
always get the two confuddled.
After Cool New Shoes Man came last week and suggested I might indeed work again, mother has been starting to eye my waist line with the feverish intensity usually only witnessed during a fat fighters field trip to Cadbury World, and making alarming comments which involve the words “diets” and “stripping back”. Now, I am thinking she’s talking about me because frankly, looking at her ass, mother can’t spell diet, let alone go on one, and the only thing in God’s green little world that ANYONE would want her stripping is wallpaper. The only thing I ever want to witness my mother taking off is the top of the treats bucket, and I’m 100% sure I’m not alone — the NHS has enough to contend with without mass blindness and a surge in requirement for intensive trauma therapy. Let’s be honest, the last time mother was wearing less than 53 layers in public someone called Green Peace…
I find mother discussing my weight more hypocritical than a nun at a séance, so to be honest, I try to ignore any trash talk on the subject and remain at peace with the fact I am big boned. Cool New Shoes Man says I am a good weight for my breed and size and frankly, I’d rather listen to him on the subject than a woman who keeps Mr Kipling exceedingly well off…
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Talking of Green Peace, the amount of rain we’ve had these last few days, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Rainbow Warrior sailing down the high street. Mum said the paddocks at home are so flooded that the chickens have been issued with water wings and had to be rescued the other morning and wrapped in towels. Does that make them a Kentucky Dried Chicken? While our fields don’t flood, they were wetter than the inside of an otter’s pocket, so I’ve been confined to barracks for two days in order to protect my foot and once again have been inside listening to Smooth FM — which I have to say, for any spies reading, would be WAY more for effective getting information out of people than sending them surfing (which is what water boarding means, right?). If I listen to Michael Bolton one more time, I may throttle myself on a haynet… Got to be honest with you, mate — I know exactly how I am supposed to live without you; very happily and with both ears not bleeding…
Anyway, thankfully I have been allowed back out and all is back right with the world. At least until the weekend, when a front colder than the shoulder mother gives me after I’ve wiped snot down her hair is due in. I am due my nimble fingered physio tomorrow morning, so I’m hoping for a long lie in, breakfast in bed and a relaxing sports massage. A boy can but dream, eh?
Laters,
Hovis
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