Safe Hands

I am sensing dad does not approve of my online love affair with Miss Simone Loving. Following the shock announcement of his enagement to Mrs Maithwaite at the weekend (yes its true the old codger is finally tying the knot, twenty three years since mum made off with a cardboard cut out of Sylvester Stallone - not strictly true it was actually a cardboard standee to promote the video release of Stallone's celluloid classic 'Cobra' - mum was never to be seen by us again, although she was spotted at a Video Trade Show with Arthur Parker from Videorama lugging a black bin sack full of deleted Betamax tapes, whilst Arthur schmoozed with some video bigwigs. Mum always did fancy the limelight. I expect she's out there now, working the car boots trying to flog the last of Arthur's crumby back catalogue of under the shelf material)....anyway following the announcement of dad's imminent wedding he has deemed my amorous online affair with Miss Loving null and void. He says I can't bring my laptop to the ceremony so has took it upon himself to sign me up for a French language course with his best pal's hulking great meathead of a son, Shaun. Shaun can barely speak English, never mind master the subtlties of the French language. Dad maintains I am in safe hands and I will be more likely to meet a lovely lady studying French than I will sat at home, munching on crackerbread whilst emailing Miss Loving. Somehow this strange concept of dad's may just work!

Take Care

Negotiating dog pooh on the streets after night fall is one thing, dodging dog matter in the dark with a double eye infection and a rucksack laden with CDs is another. Arrived at Portland Radio yesterday evening with my tractor tread walking boots caked in dirt of the dog, spent the entire broadcast sniffing from a menthol vapour stick to mask the stench. It took three lolly sticks and five sinkfuls of water to get my damn shoes clean. I hope the serial complainers from the Renal ward appreciated all the effort I put in to present the show. Only the dedicated could navigate a mixing desk with both eyes conjealed through a nasty bout of conjunctivitis and I think Kazzy realises this, she sent me packing an hour early with half a packet of fruit bonbons and strict instructions to stay off for the rest of the week. Taking the evening shifts at Portland Radio, although I am sure will prove fruitful, can at times be a struggle.

Frying fish

Kazzy continues to bulldoze her way through Portland Hospital Radio's schedule and has appointed me station manager from 8-11pm weekdays. Of course all work at the station is voluntary but I cannot help but think it is going to lead to bigger and better things. My paid job at the office is becoming increasingly unbearable. The team have seemingly formed a coven and I am left out. Of course Mandy, eager beaver volunteer is included in their whispers and japery. Earlier today I returned from the toilets to find them all discussing a mirthsome tale involving Mandy and a pair of ill fitting shoes. If only I found such banal topics interesting. Well I've decided to take the high road and leave them to it, yes such comedic moments may lighten the drudgery of their day but its of no interest to me. I've swapped desks to the one at the far side of the office, if they want to keep me out of their loop I'll stay out of their way. With that in mind I've given Mandy a list of important tasks, now I can relax and think of this evening's playlist. I've got bigger fish to fry.

French Perfume

It is Simone Loving's birthday today. As we are still to meet in person I was unable to rustle up a slice of extra goo-ey treacle tart and instead deposited £50 into her Paypal account as she requested. In return she emailed me a headless torso shot of her (at least I think its her) in a yellow bikini and promised to send me an item of clothing through the post sprayed with the new French perfume she is off to buy this afternoon. Gosh she's lovely!

Ray

Ray (friend and ex-hospital radio station manager) has just left rehab and has moved into shared supported housing. After a somewhat taxing day at work I popped over to see him. He greeted me at the door with a steaming mug of fennel tea and a beaming smile. It's a marked improvement since I last saw him, swinging between bouts of premium strength wrath and melodramatic weeping. He looks good too, he's shed a few pounds and though the smell of incense hung about his room I could quite easily say he smells a lot less ripe than before. In fact I could go as far to say he's changing his socks on a daily basis. He apologised profusely for the destruction he left in his wake at my flat and the station, promising to repay me any money for damages caused as soon as he has work. And spoke at length about his disease. I really wanted to confide in him, to tell him about Simone Loving but it wasn't the place, he needed to talk. And talk. And talk. I was there for two hours, he only came up for air once and that was to relight another josstick. Finally he excused himself to check in with his sponser, a chap he phones regularly for encouragement. Fearing another sixty minute lowdown on his daily routine I said my good-bye and left. Exhausted.

Only the Lonely

Arrived home an hour ago soaked to the skin, currently wrapped up in my favourite velour jumper and indulging in a hefty slice of lemon sponge pudding with hot fudge sauce. Its comfort all the way this evening. My Ex would be verbally castrating me right now should we still be living together, harping on about my fleshy thighs and stomach. Whipping my pudding away and replacing it with three rice cakes lightly smothered with nut butter. The woman was darn crazy! I imagine Tony McNamara is over at hers this evening ransacking the cupboards for a morsal of sugar whilst she takes a cold shower before donning her floor length nightie and slippers. It makes me feel glad to be alone.