Sunday 20th January 2019
Dear Diary,
Another year is underway. So far I don’t like 2019 and I feel it doesn’t like me. Whether we grow on each other remains to be seen.
Christmas? Meh! I have a love-hate relationship with it at the best of times. I need an elf with a gift for psychology to help me analyse my mixed emotions. Let’s not get into that guff though, or we’ll all end up knee deep in snot and tears. I’ve got Yorkshire puddings to make presently and sobbing into the batter will ruin the rise.
If I sound low, it’s because I suppose I am. I lost a friend just before Christmas, the dearest of my lit lady friends. I loved Dot. She was a spicy, witty, brave and joyful woman and I will miss her a lot. I’m still processing her death.
Other changes are causing ripples in the pond of domestic life. Dick has parted company with Reny, his business partner. Shane is working away a lot and life feels generally unsettled.
I didn’t intend to drop in and depress you, dear diary, but there you go, I’ve always been generous when it comes to sharing my messy emotions and voicing my angst within your pages.
By the way, Peeps, I’ve been mucking on with the diary access page, a saving space kind of thing, so not all the links are working. I’ll get around to them as and when I feel like it. I’m arranging the diaries by year, so I need to make sure the links at the end of each month’s entries are working. Revs is still in production, but don’t hold your breath or you’ll suffocate. My author ambitions seem doomed to failure.
I’m off now. Sunday lunch won’t make itself.
Dear Diary,
Another year is underway. So far I don’t like 2019 and I feel it doesn’t like me. Whether we grow on each other remains to be seen.
Christmas? Meh! I have a love-hate relationship with it at the best of times. I need an elf with a gift for psychology to help me analyse my mixed emotions. Let’s not get into that guff though, or we’ll all end up knee deep in snot and tears. I’ve got Yorkshire puddings to make presently and sobbing into the batter will ruin the rise.
If I sound low, it’s because I suppose I am. I lost a friend just before Christmas, the dearest of my lit lady friends. I loved Dot. She was a spicy, witty, brave and joyful woman and I will miss her a lot. I’m still processing her death.
Other changes are causing ripples in the pond of domestic life. Dick has parted company with Reny, his business partner. Shane is working away a lot and life feels generally unsettled.
I didn’t intend to drop in and depress you, dear diary, but there you go, I’ve always been generous when it comes to sharing my messy emotions and voicing my angst within your pages.
By the way, Peeps, I’ve been mucking on with the diary access page, a saving space kind of thing, so not all the links are working. I’ll get around to them as and when I feel like it. I’m arranging the diaries by year, so I need to make sure the links at the end of each month’s entries are working. Revs is still in production, but don’t hold your breath or you’ll suffocate. My author ambitions seem doomed to failure.
I’m off now. Sunday lunch won’t make itself.
Happy New Year to all!
Sunday 27th January 2019
Another week gone by and here we are at Sunday again. January is coming up to the final furlong. I’ll be glad to see it gone. It’s been an edgy kind of month. Mind you, I’m still not used to writing 2019 instead of 2018. It’s a bit scary, as we edge ever up the numerical scale and the years begin to sound like something out of science fiction. I reckon we should do away with year numbering and just name them, a bit like the Chinese do. We could name them after our ruling elite, such as year of The Evil Lying Twats or year of The Bastard Brexit Balls Up. I’m not saying it’ll catch on, but it’s a thought.
Windy today, not me, the weather. There’s a fair old breeze rocking the trees in our portion of Old Blighty. I’ve already taken advantage by laundering a load of shirts and getting them out on the washing line to have a good blow in the fresh air. In addition I’ve peeled and prepared a stack of veggies and am roasting a chicken in preps for Sunday lunch. The Yorkshire pudding batter is done and I’ve also cooked and served up bacon breakfasts to the men folk and done the washing up. I earn my money I do. In fact I more than earn it and I reckon I deserve a pay rise. I haven’t had one in a while. I did broach the subject with Shane, but he said the current climate isn’t conducive to pay rises, certainly not on the domestic front. In his opinion I earn a very decent wage for the work I do and have numerous perks into the bargain. He made it clear that pay talks are not on the agenda at this moment in time. I’m seriously considering industrial action, maybe dropping down to a four day week or even all out strike. We shall see.
Talking of men folk, as I scribble, they’re sat on their arses, sipping fresh coffee while perusing the papers and listening to Sunday Politics on the telly - hence why I’m sat here slurping tea and jabbering nonsense onto a computer. I’m more or less barred from the lounge when Andrew Marr is on the box because of my ranting outbursts. I hate political programmes. Politicians are such a pernicious breed and especially the current lot. There’s not a Statesman or Stateswoman among them. They’re all self-serving narcissistic scumbags who don’t give a flying fuck about Joe Public because no matter what happens they’re more than rich enough to get by. In fact they regard large sectors of JP as something to be used, abused and discarded. I’m smiling now, because I sound like Dot, my friend who recently passed away. She had nothing but scorn for the current breed of MP’s. She was one of a kind was Dot. They all were, those ladies from my long ago literature class. Not many of them left now. I dread winter, fearful of who will succumb next. Death seems more active in the winter months, especially where older folk are concerned, the cold-hearted bastard. I check in on Eileen every single day. Thankfully she’s a robust sort and shows no sign of shuffling off this mortal coil just yet. Touch wood. Best move on before I start welling in the eye department. I get scared about losing people.
I’ll shift my arse and go check on the chuck in the oven. We don’t want its juices drying up or there’ll be nothing to make gravy with. I'll end up having pay deducted for failing to serve up all the requisite components of a Sunday dinner. Tara for now!
Another week gone by and here we are at Sunday again. January is coming up to the final furlong. I’ll be glad to see it gone. It’s been an edgy kind of month. Mind you, I’m still not used to writing 2019 instead of 2018. It’s a bit scary, as we edge ever up the numerical scale and the years begin to sound like something out of science fiction. I reckon we should do away with year numbering and just name them, a bit like the Chinese do. We could name them after our ruling elite, such as year of The Evil Lying Twats or year of The Bastard Brexit Balls Up. I’m not saying it’ll catch on, but it’s a thought.
Windy today, not me, the weather. There’s a fair old breeze rocking the trees in our portion of Old Blighty. I’ve already taken advantage by laundering a load of shirts and getting them out on the washing line to have a good blow in the fresh air. In addition I’ve peeled and prepared a stack of veggies and am roasting a chicken in preps for Sunday lunch. The Yorkshire pudding batter is done and I’ve also cooked and served up bacon breakfasts to the men folk and done the washing up. I earn my money I do. In fact I more than earn it and I reckon I deserve a pay rise. I haven’t had one in a while. I did broach the subject with Shane, but he said the current climate isn’t conducive to pay rises, certainly not on the domestic front. In his opinion I earn a very decent wage for the work I do and have numerous perks into the bargain. He made it clear that pay talks are not on the agenda at this moment in time. I’m seriously considering industrial action, maybe dropping down to a four day week or even all out strike. We shall see.
Talking of men folk, as I scribble, they’re sat on their arses, sipping fresh coffee while perusing the papers and listening to Sunday Politics on the telly - hence why I’m sat here slurping tea and jabbering nonsense onto a computer. I’m more or less barred from the lounge when Andrew Marr is on the box because of my ranting outbursts. I hate political programmes. Politicians are such a pernicious breed and especially the current lot. There’s not a Statesman or Stateswoman among them. They’re all self-serving narcissistic scumbags who don’t give a flying fuck about Joe Public because no matter what happens they’re more than rich enough to get by. In fact they regard large sectors of JP as something to be used, abused and discarded. I’m smiling now, because I sound like Dot, my friend who recently passed away. She had nothing but scorn for the current breed of MP’s. She was one of a kind was Dot. They all were, those ladies from my long ago literature class. Not many of them left now. I dread winter, fearful of who will succumb next. Death seems more active in the winter months, especially where older folk are concerned, the cold-hearted bastard. I check in on Eileen every single day. Thankfully she’s a robust sort and shows no sign of shuffling off this mortal coil just yet. Touch wood. Best move on before I start welling in the eye department. I get scared about losing people.
I’ll shift my arse and go check on the chuck in the oven. We don’t want its juices drying up or there’ll be nothing to make gravy with. I'll end up having pay deducted for failing to serve up all the requisite components of a Sunday dinner. Tara for now!