Thursday 5th October 2023
Dear Diary,
It’s me. It’s been a while I know. I thought I’d better drop by just to say hi and confirm I am still alive. What can I say? It’s been a difficult few months. In July, halfway through our holiday, Dick got a call to say his father had been taken ill and it might be expedient to see him, just in case he didn’t pull through. Life got a bit topsy-turvy after that. His dad has mostly recovered, but isn’t getting any younger and neither is his mother. Given Dick’s posh background there are complicated inheritance issues that require addressing. There’s more than a box of books and an attic full of crap at stake.
It’s been a bit unsettling to be honest. Dick more or less moved back into the family home, spending the summer thrashing stuff out with his parents and his sister and of course Ula. It hasn’t been an easy task and in his mother’s words, one that was long overdue. Facing up to the inevitability of death and all the changes it will bring isn’t easy for anyone, rich or poor. Sad times.
Shane and I have kind of alternated between the quasi mansion and Dick’s ancestral pile, with Dick sometimes driving to spend weekends with us when Shane had work commitments this end. Then, just when it seemed things might return to normal, Dick took a tumble from a polo pony and dislocated his elbow. In case you don’t know, polo ‘ponies’ are actually massive bloody racehorses and falling off one is like falling off a cliff. I don’t get polo. To my mind it’s a form of equine golf and I’ve never got the appeal of hitting a ball with a stick, especially not when five foot off the ground. I was angry with Dick over it. He always has to play hard. He could have broken his neck. Anyway, he can’t drive at the moment, so he’s stuck down south for a while longer. I fear if he stays among his own kind for too long he’ll go poral (the posh version of feral) and not want anything to do with us, especially me. His vowels are getting longer by the day and I swear he’s forgotten how to dunk a custard cream in coffee. I’ll have to retrain him in the art of ‘common.’
Dear Diary,
It’s me. It’s been a while I know. I thought I’d better drop by just to say hi and confirm I am still alive. What can I say? It’s been a difficult few months. In July, halfway through our holiday, Dick got a call to say his father had been taken ill and it might be expedient to see him, just in case he didn’t pull through. Life got a bit topsy-turvy after that. His dad has mostly recovered, but isn’t getting any younger and neither is his mother. Given Dick’s posh background there are complicated inheritance issues that require addressing. There’s more than a box of books and an attic full of crap at stake.
It’s been a bit unsettling to be honest. Dick more or less moved back into the family home, spending the summer thrashing stuff out with his parents and his sister and of course Ula. It hasn’t been an easy task and in his mother’s words, one that was long overdue. Facing up to the inevitability of death and all the changes it will bring isn’t easy for anyone, rich or poor. Sad times.
Shane and I have kind of alternated between the quasi mansion and Dick’s ancestral pile, with Dick sometimes driving to spend weekends with us when Shane had work commitments this end. Then, just when it seemed things might return to normal, Dick took a tumble from a polo pony and dislocated his elbow. In case you don’t know, polo ‘ponies’ are actually massive bloody racehorses and falling off one is like falling off a cliff. I don’t get polo. To my mind it’s a form of equine golf and I’ve never got the appeal of hitting a ball with a stick, especially not when five foot off the ground. I was angry with Dick over it. He always has to play hard. He could have broken his neck. Anyway, he can’t drive at the moment, so he’s stuck down south for a while longer. I fear if he stays among his own kind for too long he’ll go poral (the posh version of feral) and not want anything to do with us, especially me. His vowels are getting longer by the day and I swear he’s forgotten how to dunk a custard cream in coffee. I’ll have to retrain him in the art of ‘common.’
I just want things to be normal again and I’m scared they won’t be. Time apart can change things. Fingers crossed, its just needless anxiety and all will be well.
Take care, Peeps, and a happy autumn to all.
Friday 27th October 2023
Dear Diary,
Thought I’d drop by again before the month is out. Halloween is on the horizon and winter beckons thereafter. The weather has been awful in the UK, with our portion of Old Blighty under permanent rain clouds. It’s been pissing down for a week solid, and the long-range forecast is predicting more pissing to come. The gardens are a saturated, muddy mess with drab droves of wet leaves everywhere. It’s depressing. Why can’t the trees and shrubs just absorb their leaves at this time of year instead of spewing them everywhere? Messy bastards.
Dear Diary,
Thought I’d drop by again before the month is out. Halloween is on the horizon and winter beckons thereafter. The weather has been awful in the UK, with our portion of Old Blighty under permanent rain clouds. It’s been pissing down for a week solid, and the long-range forecast is predicting more pissing to come. The gardens are a saturated, muddy mess with drab droves of wet leaves everywhere. It’s depressing. Why can’t the trees and shrubs just absorb their leaves at this time of year instead of spewing them everywhere? Messy bastards.
Things are more or less back to normal on the home front. Shane and Leo launched a rescue mission to bring Dick home a couple of weeks back. Leo drove Dick while Shane drove Dick’s car. Dick wanted to drive himself, but Shane vetoed it, saying it was too far, given he was still recuperating from the accident. Though glad to have Dick home again, things were a bit sticky at first, insofar as there were some issues that upset me and caused friction. We’re sorted now.
Dick’s elbow is loads better. He’s been diligent about doing the prescribed exercises between physio sessions. One of his biggest worries after the accident was not being able to get back to the kinky activities that are so much part of his identity. Having a dodgy weak elbow isn’t ideal if you get off on strenuous bondage activity. He was also worried about it affecting his ability to play golf. He played his first proper round last Saturday, and it went far better than he’d feared it might.
While pleased his golf session had gone well, I felt obliged to take him to task regarding his manner of celebration. It was shocking, involving the desecration of a Yule Log, as in a Cadbury’s triple chocolate Yule Log (available in shops since the August Bank Holiday.) It’s unwritten law in our house that when it comes to Cadbury’s triple choc log, I have dibs on the end bits, where the chocolate is thickest. Imagine my horror, when I went to cut a slice of the confection, only to discover that someone had got there before me and taken both ends, leaving the less chocolatey middle bit. Shane rarely indulges in cake, so I knew at once who the culprit was. Dick was unrepentant. He’d played a blinding round of golf with barely a twinge of pain in his elbow, and needed to mark the occasion somehow. It was my own fault, apparently. If I’d fallen in with his request to make him a cuppa on his return home, instead of rudely claiming I was too busy, then he wouldn’t have seen the cake at all. In his opinion he’d earned the lush end bits, and anyway, it was a case of first come, first served, so tough. Mean Daddy.
Today, in case you didn't know, is National Black Cat Day and with that in mind I bought some king prawns for Horace, Eileen’s black feline fiend. He’s partial to a freshly cooked king prawn or two. He enjoys them sautéed in a little butter and served warm. Shane saw the raw prawns in the fridge last night and reminded me that him and Dick are at a Masonic dinner tonight. He was aghast when I told him the prawns were for Horace and not them. He said it was a scandalous waste of money, and Horace is fat enough without me feeding him buttery prawns. I told him it was illegal to insult cats and if he weren’t careful, the Meow Too movement would cancel him. His response was an epic eye roll. Oh well, he’s never been that partial to houseboy humour. The prawns aren’t all for Horace. I’ve invited Eileen to dine with me tonight. She’s recovering from a nasty bout of shingles, so I thought I’d cheer her up with a nice dinner. I’m making a prawn Biryani. For afters, I’ve made creamy coconut ice cream, which I’ll serve with a fresh pineapple sauce. Delish.
Dick’s elbow is loads better. He’s been diligent about doing the prescribed exercises between physio sessions. One of his biggest worries after the accident was not being able to get back to the kinky activities that are so much part of his identity. Having a dodgy weak elbow isn’t ideal if you get off on strenuous bondage activity. He was also worried about it affecting his ability to play golf. He played his first proper round last Saturday, and it went far better than he’d feared it might.
While pleased his golf session had gone well, I felt obliged to take him to task regarding his manner of celebration. It was shocking, involving the desecration of a Yule Log, as in a Cadbury’s triple chocolate Yule Log (available in shops since the August Bank Holiday.) It’s unwritten law in our house that when it comes to Cadbury’s triple choc log, I have dibs on the end bits, where the chocolate is thickest. Imagine my horror, when I went to cut a slice of the confection, only to discover that someone had got there before me and taken both ends, leaving the less chocolatey middle bit. Shane rarely indulges in cake, so I knew at once who the culprit was. Dick was unrepentant. He’d played a blinding round of golf with barely a twinge of pain in his elbow, and needed to mark the occasion somehow. It was my own fault, apparently. If I’d fallen in with his request to make him a cuppa on his return home, instead of rudely claiming I was too busy, then he wouldn’t have seen the cake at all. In his opinion he’d earned the lush end bits, and anyway, it was a case of first come, first served, so tough. Mean Daddy.
Today, in case you didn't know, is National Black Cat Day and with that in mind I bought some king prawns for Horace, Eileen’s black feline fiend. He’s partial to a freshly cooked king prawn or two. He enjoys them sautéed in a little butter and served warm. Shane saw the raw prawns in the fridge last night and reminded me that him and Dick are at a Masonic dinner tonight. He was aghast when I told him the prawns were for Horace and not them. He said it was a scandalous waste of money, and Horace is fat enough without me feeding him buttery prawns. I told him it was illegal to insult cats and if he weren’t careful, the Meow Too movement would cancel him. His response was an epic eye roll. Oh well, he’s never been that partial to houseboy humour. The prawns aren’t all for Horace. I’ve invited Eileen to dine with me tonight. She’s recovering from a nasty bout of shingles, so I thought I’d cheer her up with a nice dinner. I’m making a prawn Biryani. For afters, I’ve made creamy coconut ice cream, which I’ll serve with a fresh pineapple sauce. Delish.
Happy Halloween!