Thursday March 10th 2022
Dear Diary,
See, I warned you I’m no bringer of joy. I’m in what the men folk term as: ‘ranting hysterical houseboy mode.’
On the home front, we had a nice break at the start of February, but it went downhill after that with a series of things that rattled all of our cages. One of those things was Dick being told he has slightly raised blood pressure and that his cholesterol is also at the high end of normal. His doctor told him it was nothing to worry about - yet. He told him to increase exercise, walk more, rather than resort to medication at this early stage. Dick was clearly worried, not so much about his blood pressure and cholesterol, but by the notion of walking more. Outside of a golf course, walking is something one does on the way to one’s car. Shane left him with no choice. Brisk walking was on the agenda, for an hour, at least three times a week. Poor Dick. He can take any amount of pain and punishment, and enjoy it, but walking is pure torture to him. Shane insists on accompanying him, to make sure there’s no slacking, and if Shane can’t do it, I take his place. After all, I want my men to be fit and healthy for as long as possible. Dick claims I’m more of a tyrant than Shane when it comes to setting a pace. I tell him it’s for his own good and I’ll have him running marathons in next to no time. By way of revenge he gets me in a headlock and messes my hair up. Swine.
Well, peeps, I’d better go. I’ve got stuff to do. Stay safe, stay well and enjoy each day as it comes, because we never know when it will be our last. (I know, I know, I’m a little ray of fucking sunshine.) As always, many thanks to those who have emailed me recently.
Dear Diary,
My
apologies, but I’m no bringer of joy at the moment. The pessimist in me
wants to don a sandwich board and hit the streets wailing and
proclaiming: ‘the end of the world is nigh.’ We’ve had two years
of plague and now what feels like an escalation towards WW3. It’s hard
to find any reason to be optimistic about the world. It’s a massive shit
hole controlled by massive shit heads. Putin is terrifying, and not
just because he has the look of a decaying Halloween pumpkin. There’s a
light flickering behind those piggy eyes, but it isn’t candlelight -
it’s malice. He’s a vessel of evil. My heart goes out to the Ukrainian
people for all they are suffering. I also can’t help but feel pity for
some of the young Russian soldiers. They too are victims of Pumpkin Head Putin and his propaganda machine. It sickens me that this aging psychotic murderer is cutting short the
lives of so many innocents, while he trundles on. Just die, you rancid
old bastard! I hope some brave soul can end the warped cunt, before he
hits the red button and destroys us all on a whim. I salute those Russians who have had the courage to protest the invasion, at risk to themselves. Scary times for all.
See, I warned you I’m no bringer of joy. I’m in what the men folk term as: ‘ranting hysterical houseboy mode.’
On the home front, we had a nice break at the start of February, but it went downhill after that with a series of things that rattled all of our cages. One of those things was Dick being told he has slightly raised blood pressure and that his cholesterol is also at the high end of normal. His doctor told him it was nothing to worry about - yet. He told him to increase exercise, walk more, rather than resort to medication at this early stage. Dick was clearly worried, not so much about his blood pressure and cholesterol, but by the notion of walking more. Outside of a golf course, walking is something one does on the way to one’s car. Shane left him with no choice. Brisk walking was on the agenda, for an hour, at least three times a week. Poor Dick. He can take any amount of pain and punishment, and enjoy it, but walking is pure torture to him. Shane insists on accompanying him, to make sure there’s no slacking, and if Shane can’t do it, I take his place. After all, I want my men to be fit and healthy for as long as possible. Dick claims I’m more of a tyrant than Shane when it comes to setting a pace. I tell him it’s for his own good and I’ll have him running marathons in next to no time. By way of revenge he gets me in a headlock and messes my hair up. Swine.
Well, peeps, I’d better go. I’ve got stuff to do. Stay safe, stay well and enjoy each day as it comes, because we never know when it will be our last. (I know, I know, I’m a little ray of fucking sunshine.) As always, many thanks to those who have emailed me recently.