Out of hand....

Had to work in the shop at the rugby match today. Was really pissed off. What is it with this rugby shit? I mean who really cares? Apart from the 82,000 who attended that is. Bloody feet are killing me and had to do bloody 12 till 8 pm. I mean sod this!

For some insane reason I walk home. Its actually less hassle than trying to get a bus in the high street thats full of pissed rugby fans urinating by Waterstones. Whats the point of drinking all that bloody beer?

I walk along the main road yearning for 10 smokes. But it has to be Smokes from Fatso somehow, or they would lose their significance. I haven't seen Him all day and feel he deserves
a kick up the arse.

Disappointed to see that Fatso was not in residence, the idle git. It was his Son who, I must say, was not remotely fat, in fact he was extremely svelte. This scores points against him from the start. I scowl at him for this reason, the selfish git and he, in turn, scowls back.

"Where's that fat...your Father," I ask innocently.

Son gives me a deep and significant look.
"upstairs resting. Suffering from mental and physical exhaustion"

"Oh? Had to fill up an extra shelf did he?"
(And i bet he even did that wrong)

"If you must know," he hissed, "The shop was innudated today with Movie fans and Bloggers. One even brought their bloody dog for Gods sake!"

"Oh?" I ask innocently "And how is Fa....your father now?"

"Fat... I mean Dad is in a state of delirium . Muttering things about that Bloody Woman and
Restraining orders.."

He gave me my change coldly. The silence like a huge weight between us.

"And how did you do?" , I venture tentatively.

"Not bad. Tenner a photo, great demand for White Sliced and Superkings, and 3 coach parties booked for next week!"

I go back out into the street. Broken glass crunches beneath my worn cheap soles.
They'd need a bloody wide-angled lense, I tell you.

Deep Conversations with Fatso

After my self-loathing trip to Westfield, I am staying local. I am Milly Molly Mandy going up the village shop. Yearn for Fatso's. I don't remotely know why.

While he is scanning my white sliced in stony silence, I comment that he has got to stop cracking all these jokes and let me get a word in edgeways, I mean I love a chat and everything but.....
He looks scared again.

The only crumbs I can treasure is the deep meaningful (and only) conversation I had with him last week. His watery puffed-up eyes had looked into mine and he said: Look, I do not know Danny Boyle, I have never worked with Danny Boyle, I didn't even know who Danny Boyle was till this bloody film came out. I have never been, nor am I likely to be, in any sort of film. I am not that useless fat policeman in this Slumdog thing that you seem to think I am . Neither have I been to Bombay or Mombay or whatever the Hell they call it now. Nor would I. My family are from Pakistan!

I tell him that was a great pitch and was he setting his sights on Oliver Stone or Tarrantino now. He seemed to sit down heavily. He wasn't used to all those long words. He wasn't used to words at all actually.

The phone goes. I tell him that could be Danny for him now with a new script. I think I saw tears.

What a Load of .........

This 24 programme, whats that all about then? These 10 Guerilla types from a small country, it seems, can break into the White House, probably the most protected building in the world, and completely take it over and shoot hostages and that. Why don't the SAS go in there and get the bastards? I ask Husband. Where's Louis Collins when you need him?

I ask Him why they don't shoot that crashing bore who seems to avoid death every hour of the day. Husband, rather snappily I thought, told me that was no way to talk about Jack Bauer. I really don't get this at all.

Jon Voight is in this episode as a guest star. Well, I was expecting him to be in cowboy gear fresh from New York City walking to that soundtrack by Harry Nilsein. Not this really old looking bloke. Will have to watch Midnight Cowboy again. He was so gorgeous then. Before that sulky daughter of his was born and grew up.

Went to Westfield today, to that awful Holister shop to get something for Daughter's birthday. Virtually pitch black with deafening music, I felt for the nearest objects in front of me before I tripped over something, longing for the security of Fatso's shop, when an anorexic young thing appeared in front of me and asked if I was looking for something for myself. I mean Bless Her! As if I would remotely contemplate buying this overpriced shit! Assuming i could fit into it in the first place.

Groping for a blue top and shorts for Daughter's 13th, i struggled to the till where the cashiers looked fresh from London Fashion week. I began to reflect that i had come all the way here just to get these two expensive items and something else from Boots. And that was that really. This was how futile my life had become. It all came down to shallow little trips like this.

Going for a long bloody walk tomorrow to re-think my life. - well, maybe the day after, I've got ironing to do .......

Defiled!

My legs are wobbling! My eyes are glazed. A terrible sense of shame has crawled over me like a second skin. How could I have done it? That Thing I said I would never do! If only I could turn the clock back! But I know its too late. I will have to bear this burden for the rest of my miserable life. I was going to save this for Confession but I will confide in you as friends. I used a Debit card in the Newsagents.

When they started taking cards, these small shops, I swore I would never be a part of it. Small shops should have cash only - or a slate like with papers and that - because they're not frackin' Tescos. Why can't people have enough money for their fags and chocolates and that. Why should they live by a swipe of a card?

I mean I have done it at Fatso's occasionally. I have bought a few groceries on the credit card. But He doesn't count. Fatso is like a cheap whore. One of those really - and I mean really - cheap types you pick up at a place with sawdust on the floor. You can defile him all you like and forget him afterwards. It really doesn't matter how much you misuse him. He likes it.

But not my Hallowed newsagent next door. Who I treat with such reverence and respect. Leaving Him pure and untouched. Keeping it traditional with fivers and loose change. I mean i've run out of fags before - of course I have. But when your Oyster cards' dried up too - it can push a person with the most purest principles over the edge.

When I put my card in His rented pin machine, I felt another side of me - the dirty side - had been revealed and my hands shook as I put in the Pin number. I looked at him with tears in my eyes. Will He ever forgive me? I have treated him on the same level as that scrubber Fatso.

If I didn't know better, I would have actually said that the Newsagent rather enjoyed this degrading act. In fact there was a big smile on his face throughout the whole perverted and filthy procedure. It just shows you never know anyone!

The Cat bit my foot.

Step One....

Decided to salvage some advice from the discarded magazine. Haircut. Need one anyway. And now and then I allow myself to "stray" from my usual hairdresser. My Korean girl has her salon down the road just past Fatso's and colouring there is great but her haircuts aren't so hot. So it was time for a bit of adventure. Play away from home, it was kind of exciting.

Go into this salon in the high street. Loud music, bloke on reception looking like he should be on a catwalk, and everything sparse and gleaming. Should have taken in these warning signs and legged it. But that would have been undignified - wouldn't it?

Its a well known hairdressers, part of a large chain, whose name is on a large section of hair products in Boots. Never touched 'em before. But wanted to look younger and if anyone can do it, these buggers can - or should.

Relieved to see i wasn't getting this young trendy stylist bloke with a stupid goatee beard. Like, we'd have so much common! And I mean no offence, dear, but i doubt if he'd even seen an older woman, let alone do their hair. Got a young girl instead , felt a bit better about that. At least we had the same sex in common.

But i noticed an alarming thing. When the last customer left, the hairdresser kissed her! I mean when did hairdressers ever kiss? I can't remotely imagine kissing old Fatso's neighbour and i'm sure the feeling's quite mutual. And as for my mum kissing Vera - or whatever her hairdresser of 20 years is called - she'd rather spit!

When did hairdressers get theatrical all of a sudden? Oh God, i don't have to kiss her , do I? I'll pay double! or anything! Mind you, its a better deal than the goatee beard. I'm not intactile, and i love greeting my pals with a kiss but this just seems odd.

As it happend I was spared. And she asked if my grey hair was a part of my highlights. Double tip for her I tell you! And the very young never believe the age you are! I mean i know she was butterin me up and i know my kind of age is far beyond her young horizons but its bliss just the same.

Which is more than can be said for the fracking haircut. What a load of old shit! Back to me old china plate next time I tell you. Still, it was an adventure and I got off lightly with the price (comparatively - old goatee beard would have charged far more).

Got Son's teacher this afternoon for the Parent Teacher consultation. I suspect he's gay - going to ask him (had you going there!)

Monday Monday

Got up this morning. So spectacularly depressed even I took a step back. I didn't get this. I've had much worse Monday mornings in my lifetime. Why should this one go sour on me? Son walked to school, I didn't even have that school run shit.

Feel old. Look through a magazine. Botox, it said. That makes you look younger and better. But I'm no Patsy Stone. Next page. Forget Botox, it said, a scary looking serum will lift years off you - £65!

Next page, forget Botox and Serums, a new haircut and brow pluck will take years off you instead. Now this was progress. But at what cost? Next page, a self-made bloke with a chocolate business gives advice on money: Don't spend any! Am confused.

Get an idea. Stop buying magazines at £3.20 a pop that talk shit, that would save money wouldn't it.

Higher offer for the house. Husband accepts. So Stamp Duty is under £250,000 - now I get it! I think.

Oh My Giddy Aunt....

Bless you and thank you sweeties for your concern. Sorry, yes, I have been off the rails but not in an "Easy Rider" sort of way, more of a "for Flip's sake" sort of way.

Got an offer for the house - nice couple of Balham. Too low, Husband says, can't accept it. Disappointment sat in my stomach like a stone. They're first time buyers - they probably can't find the money. So back to indifferent viewers tramping over the house. I really thought we'd caught a live one there.

Go to London to cheer up. Meet mate outside Cineworld Chelsea. Phone goes. School. Son is ill. Leg it all the way back up the Kings Road. On the train home, Husband phones, he had collected him after all . Come home, have a bloody lie down. Bollocks to it. Cat bites me.

Then work. Stocktaking. What is this work shit? I hate it.

Son been off for three days. Yesterday he drove me mad lying on that bloody sofa. But today I feel much better about it for some reason.

Went to see Fatso in his shop. He seemed in good spirits. Probably had Danny Boyle on the phone. And the miserable git actually said Goodbye as i walked out. Took his bloody temperature I tell you! He'll be smiling next!

Missed you, sweeties