Black Lace

Very excited about this evening as Tony is coming over later with his sister and an old friend of ours Duncan Blackhorn. Dunc used to do the sound with Black Lace some twenty odd years ago. He's a Yorkshire man through and through, very funny, sharp and a lot of fun to be around. Tony's bought in a crate of lager and I'm doing some nibbly bits (tho I'm not sure how far a loaf of bread and four tins of tuna will stretch). Mrs N said she might come over and give me a hand as I am still incapacitated sure she'll be able to whip something up. I've been trying to get some sun on my deathly white skin all morning and tho its baking outside I'm still looking rather lardy. I might wash off the factor 50. Wonder if Dunc still has his mullet?

Skirt of Skin

There must be a bad moon ascending as the mood in the office has been particularly gloomy the past two days. Not sure if it's the post bank holiday lull or something more sinister in the air (like synchronised menstrual cycles). Adding to the generally dark ambience I caught my finger in the paper shredder and had to be rushed to A&E. The flesh of my index finger flayed creating a skirt of skin around my knuckle and a large pool of blood in the photocopy room. Marcus, senior solicitor, stemmed the blood flow with his cashmere cardigan and got me up to the hospital. Five hours later and I was allowed home. Tony gave me a lift back and as I type (with one hand) he is off to fetch Mrs N to make my bed and fluff up my pillows. Tony has a gnarled arm from a motorbike accident and although its fully functional he tends to play on it. Just hoping Marcus doesn't expect payment for his heavily soiled designer cardigan, Tony asked me for three pound fifty for the lift back and with Ray leeching off me I'm very nearly in the red.

Get Ready!!!!

Spent the afternoon with Tony, his sister and Mrs N on Preston's Whit fair. The last time I came to the fair was five years ago in my days as a local councillor, I was canvassing for the imminent elections but folk were more interested in hot dogs and hook a duck than my political spiel.
Today's glorious sunshine left me with a slight wardrobe crisis. Unable to fasten the button on my white holiday shorts I secured them with a safety pin. I couldn't find a t-shirt ample enough to stretch over my stomach so I opted for an open loose cotton shirt worn with vest. Ray has made off with my trainers so I had to wear slip on shoes, which chaffed against my bare feet somewhat.
Tony was eager to impress Mrs N and kept suggesting bigger and more daring rides. After a rather challenging mid afternoon snack of candyfloss and half a beefburger he suggested we go on the Mexican Wave. At this point I was limping wth blistered feet and the waistband of my shorts was cutting into my sides like bread knife. I said I'd sit it out (I'd already accompanied him on five gut wrenching rides, costing the best part of fifteen pounds). He was insistent, reluctantly I queued only for Tony to decide last minute that he wanted to get off leaving me sat alone. The safety belt had gone down and there was no way out. As the ride started up my stomach churned and gurgled, I was like a human Mount Vesuvius on a spin cycle. As the pounding techno music got louder the gripping cramps of revolt twisted tighter in my stomach. Three minutes later I was back on terra firma, I staggered towards the nearest alley eager to get out of sight of everyone but it was too late. No sooner had Tony asked if anyone fancied a hot dog with extra onions I vomited into Mrs N's Bag for Life.

Misunderstandings

Following a light lunch of tuna sandwiches on the hoof I met with Tony Mc. We'd arranged a rendez vous at the Bishop's Stink, an aptly named pub within spitting distance of his sister's house. (Spit being the operative word here, roadside phlegm and graffiti are abundant at her end of town). To divert any possible mugging I dressed down for the occasion, threadbare cords, ill fitting knitted cardigan and a stained thermal vest. I was just about to set off when I received a call from Tony, he was outside my flat. Apparently the pub had been closed down on instruction of the police and Tony thought it best to bring his sister and Mrs N (yes he's back with the sinister sister of crochet) over to my place. I answered the door to be met by Tony and the most stunningly beautiful woman in the world (rest assured I am not talking about the evil seamstress Mrs N). Tony's sister is wonderful! If ever angels existed she would be one, maybe Dianne was right after all.

Embarrassment all round as I explained my attire, then realising I made a complete faux pas referring to her neighbourhood as a crime ridden hell hole. She deflected my comments with a smiling 'ooh its not that bad' and a request for tea. As the ladies made themselves comfortable in the lounge Tony came into the kitchen to give me my post (my ex-wife now gives any un-redirected post to Mrs N who then passes it to Tony to give to me). As I flicked through the junk mail I came across a magazine wrapped in clear sellophane, inside in large letters was the magazine's title 'Simply Cynthia, for Gentlemen Who Prefer Ladies Shoes'. A joke, surely. I followed Tony into the lounge.
Barely able to contain his mirth he said 'We picked these up for you on our way over.' and handed me a pair of American Tan tights in XXL as the room erupted in laughter. Surely they don't think I subscribe to such a publication?

Fumigation

Spent most of the weekend fumigating the flat. Ray has left! I withdrew the last of my savings and booked him into a bed and breakfast in town for a week. I've taken last minute leave at work and I'm going over there later. The trains campaign is on the back burner, he always saw me right at the radio station and now he needs me. And besides the train guards keep threatening to get me arrested as I parade the station wearing my 'Late Trains - We Should All Complain' sandwich board.

As I've been cleaning I came across the dream catcher and essential oils Dianne gave me, absent mindedly I put them in the bag to go to the charity shop but now I'm not so sure - it could be bad luck? As I type the dream catcher looks like a fancy spiders web laid out on my pillow. I've popped a few drops of the Neroli essential oil in my living room oil burner and its taking away the stench. At least something she gave me is coming in handy.
Tony McNamara is calling later, his sister is a nurse and I feel that as he was messing around with Ray's wife he owes him one. Even if its advice where to get help.

Sad Cafe

I am updating my blog from an internet cafe in town. Its a 'cafe' in the loosest sense of the word, the only warm beverages they serve are dispensed from a large noisy machine behind the 'cashier' and the choice ranges from lukewarm powdered tea to murky brown, scalding hot chocolate. All for the princely sum of £1.50! I requested a little hot water for my camomile teabag to be met by a quizzical stare from the 'cashier', he almost put his mobile telephone down when I asked him but then decided to continue his loud conversation. Then another one of his three mobiles rang so I decided against persisting with my request. How I wish I was bi-lingual so I could understand his loud, animated conversations which seem to involve people on two mobiles and someone on web chat. Whatever he is talking about must be important as he stops mid sentence and bangs the table really hard. Not that its putting the Spanish lady to my left off, she is chatting away merrily (and loudly) to a friend online via a headset microphone. I am rather hungry but the cafe only offers chocolate bars and bags of crisps. I might pop out for food but I may lose my computer space, this place is packed so shall hang on til the next wave of hunger pangs (not sure how the 'cashier' does any business he has the customer service skills of a wet flannel).
Ray has eaten me out of house and home, I always thought heavy drinkers forgo food for alcohol but not Ray. Whatever he puts away in alcohol he matches with food. This evening I found yesterday's food shopping gone except for a four pack of pears and some cheap mint imperials I bought for the team (all those spicy chickpea burgers and mung bean bakes are making the office a little whiffy, especially in warmer weather). Not only had he worked his way through a week's shop, or swapped it for alcohol, I caught him rifling through my sock drawer. When I pulled him up on it he said he had lost the TV remote. I hate confrontation but he has to leave.

Toilet trouble

Returned home from work today to find a pair of soiled underpants in the hallway and Ray asleep on the toilet. I wanted to turn on my heel and walk back out but my conscience couldn't cope with it. What if he choked on his own vomit? Not only would there be a dead friend in my flat but I doubt if the agents would renew my contract (last year they were grumbling about a small crack on the washing powder dispenser drawer so lord only knows how they would feel about a messy death in the lavatory). With that in mind I woke Ray up. Cleaned him up, I'll spare you the details, and sat him down in the kitchen with a hot sweet tea and a fresh change of clothes. He kept muttering about how thankful he was but all I could think about was how much I enjoy my own company these days. I wish he would leave.

Bank Holiday Blues

Ray is now residing in my living room and every morning I wake up to total disarray. That's if I can face going in there. The stench is far from favourable and usually keeps me from entering - its a particularly noxious combination of dirty pants, socks, vomit, stale alcohol and cheap aftershave. Most evenings after he has conked out infront of the TV I close the door and roll an old towel into a snake-like draught excluder to stop the smell drifting into other parts of the flat. I have designated the kitchen out of bounds as he is a pure hazard with flames and hot liquids. Last week I came home to find him trying to ignite the electric grill with a lighter. I had to grapple the lighter off him and shove a can of super strength lager in his hand to prevent an inferno in my kitchen. The flat is begininning to look like a troupe of destructive two year olds has torn through it, leaving empty cans, bottles and puddles of pee in their wake. I caught him urinating in my house plants the other day.

So I have spent most of the weekend out and about. I hung around the station most of Saturday researching ideas for my show, its going to have a pants theme. I shall be playing 'Donald Where's Your Troosers?', 'Baggy Trousers' and 'Don't Put Your Trousers on Your Head'. Thankfully Pierre has gone on a study break back to France and with Ray out of action I had free reign in the studio. I bought a packet of Nice biscuits to lighten the team's return to work but ate them in one sitting with a steaming mug of milk. Small pleasures go a long way when one feels an outsider in his own home.