Sunday, 28 March 2010

Polish Boy

Am deeply in love with the Polish painter next door, o my brothers, he finished my new kitchen in one day! What a real man he is! I gave him a packet of Rothmans. Thats true love that is. It takes a lot for me to part with Rothmans.

We will run off together to His native Gadansk and begin a new life there. I'm not afraid of hardship and poverty. Tho' I get the feeling he is, and wouldn't dream of going back there in a million years. I can only get these feelings about Him, brothers, because he doesn't speak a word of English. And my Polish is slightly dim.

So thats another idea screwed then. I'll never get out of this goddam shithole. Still hate house. Its nicely painted and that by my Eastern European "pash" , but still unhappy here.

Had another cunning plan. The A316 runs at the back of us. My mate tells me there were several compulsory purchases of nice houses to get that road there. Brilliant! Will put a proposal to the council to extend the motorway down this crappy street. I mean, no-one will miss it! Its such shit! And we'll get money to buy a decent house! Excellent! Why didn't I think of that before?

Will take Polish guy with me. Haven't written book yet .

Thursday, 18 March 2010

Changed My Mind

I'm back again O my brothers.

Slumped on the sofa, my head aching, I felt I had to turn to my Real pals. Especially as my new Polish ones next door dont' seem to be in. Pieter and Paul and someone or other. Probably out knocking back vodka. Wouldn't offer me any of course. Just out for themselves, aren't they! Someone told me once never to trust a Pole - or was it a pilot? Can't remember now.

What a frackin' day, readers. I;m amazed I heard God's calling with all the bloody row going on here. Today, the stink in this God-forsaken-hole really got to me. It seemed to come from the walls. My mate's husband suspects cadavars are buried there and someone similar to Fred West or Christie could have lived here. (who was that one in Muswell Hill?)

I knocked next door (not the Polish side) and there was no-one there. I seriously suspected foul-play. I looked through the letter box. I dialled 999 and told the nice bloke there about the smell and my suspicions that someone could have died. They sent round a Police car and Paramedic immediately. And this poor cow had to jump over my fence to get in the house.

Anyway, a nice bloke called round, saying he lived next door but one, and he had a key to next door and "John" just worked odd hours and wasn't there a lot. Wanted the frackin floor to open up and swallow me! Why in Gods name, did I not just knock at his door? Lovely bloke tho'. Sweet. What a good frackin' start this is!

And then "John" himself knocked. Was really sweet about it all. After all, he had almost been accused of serial killings. Luckily we both have a cat so this smoothed things over.

And then we lost Son's bloody i-pod! Got ultra-depressed. Ask Polish painters next door if they'd seen it when they'd been painting upstairs. Knew they would never dare nick the thing, not when they're building up a painting business. Found it in the soft toys.

Mate bought round a candle - purple one - lit it up. It drowns out the stink - just.

Bloody hell! late for my fag!

Wednesday, 17 March 2010

You know what I'm going to say......

Brothers, friends, only friends in fact: my posting has been so sparodic. The truth is we have moved house and my misery is deep and bottomless.

It smells, and there is a view of a motorway. Whatever possessed me to come here? Daughter hates me because its further away from school. And Son and Husband just hate me. Even the cat's given me the cold shoulder. There is no-one to turn to, o my brothers.

I'm going to have a take a break from the blogging thing, o my loves. My heart is just not in it at the moment. I will miss you all.

The truth is, besides contemplating suicide, I'm gonna try writing a book. Don't ask me why. Like Joan of Arc, I had a calling. The literary world needs you, God has told me. And even though he has been so very brutal with me of late, I will heed his words and go forth.

The truth is, if I write a bestseller, I can get out of this shithole.

Bless you, you really are my only friends at the moment. You and the young Polish painter upstairs. And his English is a bit iffy, if you want to know the truth. But he smokes, so we are like brothers. Tho' no-one can take the place of you, my friends.

Sob! You mean so much to me. I will always treasure the moments we have all had together and do you remember that time..... Bugger, only two fags left, the new local shop for me.

Monday, 8 March 2010

Healing Wounds

Well, readers, the pain seems to have lessened slightly. Only one boy got into the grammar school out of Son's pals. And he's fat and shit at football - so it could have been a lot worse.

The smug overbearing parents who assumed their daughters would get a place there, turned up at school wearing dark glasses. Only felt sorry for them, didn't I! Me being as soft as shite and everything. But I have been through their pain - twice! Assuming my own daughter would get there.

Some parents didn't get their children into the school Son is going to. They've been offered some notorious rough place near Richmond. And I read how a lot of parents aren't getting their first choice. So this could have been so much worse. And at least he's with his mates - and a lot of grammar school also-rans. He will take refuge with them - and the football team.

Son got his heartbreak present of an x-box game and I'm getting mine tomorrow. Want a ring - a cheap one - to remind me of this significant and painful era. And that all this bloody shit is finally over!

Going to get a heartbreak service wash done now. Thank you all for your support.