Who Needs Freshly Pressed When Dotty Can Just Swear A Lot?

 

I never post three posts in one day because you all (y’all) will get fed up with me and unfollow me and leave me here all on my todd again if I annoy you with loads of posts, but I’m so amazed at the amount of VIEWS I’ve had today that I had to do another one just to say

 

THANK YOU FOR READING MY LITTLE BLOG EVERYONE

Today has been my busiest day with 626 views (FINAL TOTAL) which is a MASSIVE leap from 361 views which was my previous busiest day total. Now that might not seem like a lot to you big super bloggers who get thousands and thousands of views per day but to me it’s MAGIC! WONDERFUL! ASTOUNDING! Truly, it amazes me.

And it also amazes me how much you all (y’all) like SWEARING.

I LOVE IT!

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT  – FINAL TOTAL 626 views. I AM FUCKING GOBSMACKED.  :-)

Here’s a little present for you – a picture -

 

Here a packet of sweets for you to eat, my present to you for reading my little blog. Thank you and I hope you like them.

A New Dotty Collection

 

I’ve started a new collection. 

Hellosailor sparked the idea.

It’s going to be FUCKING BRILLIANT.

 

GO HERE TO SEE WHAT IT IS

 

I want EVERYONE TO CONTRIBUTE TO MY COLLECTION.

Thank you.

 

Dotty Does International Accents So Well She Sounds Like She Comes From There

 

Being reared in a multi-cultural, multi-lingual, multi-accented home, I am EXCELLENT at doing accents – I had to be because when I started school at the age of 5 I got my head kicked in by a boy named Geoffrey for ‘talking funny’ so I speedily picked up the Yorkshire accent to use when speaking to Yorkshire people and that’s the main accent I still use except when I speak to my Scottish relatives, then I speak in the accent I THINK IN which is Scottish because German sounds like coughing up flem and this flummoxes Yorkshire people because they think I’m from Yorkshire. Which I’m not, I’m from Lancashire but I only lived there until I was one year old so I didn’t have chance to speak fluent Lancastrian.

So here’s me speaking in INTERNATIONAL ACCENTS that are so good I’d be able to pass myself off as a local if I could ever GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING HOUSE.

 

Fucking ‘ell- Northern England and Scotland (we’re the only ones who pronounce it correctly)

Fackinell- Southern England

Faarking Hell or Ferking Hell – posh Southern England

Feckin ‘ell – Ireland

Fooockeeen ‘el’ – France, Italy

FOCKUN HELL – Germany, Poland, most of the rest of Europe

Fuucking Hell – North America

Fuuuurkin Hell – the other bit of America

F*cking Hell - Canada

Fooorkeen Hell- Pakistan, India and other Asian countries that are not China or Japan

Fakeenell – China, Japan and the little countries around them

FORKUN HELLSKI - Russia and other ex-USSR countries

feeekin hell – Smurfland

The rest of the world doesn’t swear.

 

If I’ve missed you out, or if you come from somewhere on the list and I’m saying it wrong, let me know and I’ll teach you how to say it properly in your accent.

Cumberland sausage time. MMMmmmm.

 

A Dotty Short Story About A Zoo

 

Today I’m going to write a story about a zoo but I don’t know who should tell it -

1  the lion

2  the ostrich

3  the penguin

4  the bear

The zookeeper is also an option, he knows everything that happens in the zoo but he doesn’t know what the animals THINK which would be a problem.

 

I am doing 3 – the penguin.

 

THE PENGUIN

Once upon a time there was a penguin.

What else can I put?

Once upon a time there was a cold penguin who lived in the cold. He was cold. His penguin wife was cold, his penguin kids were cold, his penguin mother was cold, his penguin father was cold, his penguin brother was cold, his penguin sisters were cold, they were all cold, but they huddled together in a big group like it showed on that penguin film when all the mothers fucked off and left the FATHERS in charge of the kids, what’s THAT all about, MRS PENGUIN, why don’t you stay with your kids? No one’s saying you can’t have a job or a social life but it’s a well known fact that when a child is ill the one person in the world it wants is its MUM. And what happens when MUM isn’t there? I’ll tell you what happens –

ABANDONMENT ISSUES

REJECTION ISSUES

ANGER ISSUES

ATTACHMENT ISSUES

SELF-ESTEEM ISSUES

CONFIDENCE ISSUES

NEUROSIS

HYSTERICAL HISSY FITS

THUGGERY

SLUTTERY

WIFE BATTERY

HUSBAND BATTERY 

 SERIAL KILLERY

TYRANNICAL MASS MURDERY ON AN INTERNATIONAL SCALERY

 

THE END

 

Oh, I didn’t want it to be a sad story, I wanted it to be happy, I wanted the little penguins to dance with their happy little feet and be warm and cosy and safe.

Why does life have to be so cruel?

 

 

Dinosaur Eggs And Disheartening Disrespect

 

Today I was going to write about my collections of which I have LOTS and LOTS including two of my most prized objects, my DINOSAUR EGGS found in Montana about 11 years ago and given to me by dear dead Daddy (before he died of course, idiot). After months and months of debate THE FOSSIL BOFFINS suspected the eggs are SAUROPOD EGGS because they were found next to the skeleton of a SAUROPOD. What’s to suspect, FOSSIL BOFFINS? DUH! 

My dear dead Daddy actually gave me FIVE DINOSAUR EGGS but curiosity and scientific experiments involving hammers and drills and great quantities of arsenic based concoctions lost me three of them – in the scientific culinary experiment I attempted to produce a lovely, rare, black fried egg that Russian oligarchs and Chinese zulti-zillionaires would clamour to eat and pay me squidoodles of dosh for but it didn’t quite work out as I’d planned mainly because the DINOSAUR EGGS have become FOSSILISED and are just like BIG HARD BALL-SIZED ROCKS THAT ARE HARD TO OPEN.

Anyway, if you were paying attention at the beginning you’ll have noticed I said I WAS GOING TO write about my collections (and if you weren’t paying attention, why do I waste my time?) but I can’t write about my collections because I’m still reeling in shock at what I saw on telly last night – Amy Winehouse’s FATHER helping to sell one of her dresses on FOUR ROOMS. Granted, the dress had been donated to charity by Miss Winehouse before her death and granted, the dress was being sold by and for the charity – BUT WHAT THE FUCK WAS HER FATHER DOING THERE in the first place, getting his face on telly AGAIN on the back of his dead daughter’s fame, HELPING TO SELL HER CLOTHES? And I read that he said on his Twitter thingy that he’ll be SELLING MORE OF HER CLOTHES (he didn’t say whether or not it will be for charity). She’s hardly cold, at least give it a year before you schlep her clothes round the vulture’s lairs.

What happened to basic decency? And respect for the newly dead? In little Emily’s time people wore BLACK for a year after the death of a loved one and during the mourning period decent intervals of time were expected and adhered to before certain things took place, such as FLOGGING OFF THEIR CLOTHES. What happened to STANDARDS?

The word ‘memorabilia’ was mentioned in reference to the dress. I’m not even going to go there…

But, surprisingly, one of the FOUR ROOMS collectors had a conscience, the fat bloke with glasses who I didn’t used to like but I do now, he refused to make a bid because he said he didn’t feel comfortable, “IT IS TOO SOON.”

Yes, fat bloke with glasses who I didn’t used to like but I do now. It IS too soon.

At least if my scientific culinary experiment had worked it wouldn’t have been MERCENARY and PROFITEERING because my DINOSAUR EGGS are older than ancient, MILLIONS OF YEARS HAVE GONE BY SINCE THEY HAD LIFE IN THEM.

Oh, and the dress made £25,000.

Fucking disgraceful.

 

 

Donate To Dotty For A Very Important Cause

 

In my travels around WordPress I’ve come across lots of blogs with DONATE buttons on them. The begging bloggers want people to give them money for many various reasons – they want to travel; they want to buy a house; they want to buy a new Gucci bag; they want to buy food for their children; they want to pay for granny to be put in a home - everyone has a different reason but each and every one of those reasons are STUPID and FRIVOLOUS.

I want a DONATE button for my little blog but MY reason is VERY IMPORTANT – I want to buy a CANNON and some CANNON BALLS. When I get my CANNON I’m going to knock a hole in my bricked-up front door and fit the CANNON BARREL into the hole and then cement round it so NOTHING can get in AND I’LL BE ABLE TO BLAST AWAY ANY FUCKERS WHO COME TO MY FRONT DOOR.

But I don’t know where to get a DONATE button. And if I do find out where to get one and I get one I won’t be able to fit it onto my little blog because I CAN’T EVEN DO PICTURES SO HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO A DONATE BUTTON?

So what I thought is you all (y’all) could just put the wedge of money you’re going to give me in an envelope (notes only please, Royal Mail will charge me if you put coins in the envelope) and send it to me through the proper post, but for obvious reasons you’re not getting my house address so you’ll have to wait until I’ve set up a Post Office box you can send it to. In the meantime, my lovely generous Followers and Readers, START SAVING YOUR MONEY FOR YOUR DOTTY TO BUY HER CANNON AND SOME CANNON BALLS – £20 notes and $50 notes, please (and the same in whatever currency you use) because you can get more money in the envelope with the higher value notes and it’ll save you money on postage in the long run because an envelope stuffed with higher value notes will cost the same to send as an envelope stuffed with lower value notes, I’ll  just get less.

 

Give me your money and you'll have the satisfaction of knowing your Dotty is safe in her house and no fucker can get through the bricks.

A Dotty Picture Puzzle

 

What’s the answer to the picture puzzle?

Robert de Niro's waiting

It’s easy.

 

 

talking Italian...

 

 

 

First one to get it right can have the pictures if they want.

I’m only doing a picture puzzle to practice doing pictures and making them stick where I put them.

Fingers crossed!

 

Dotty Had A Lovely Day Yesterday But Today Might Be Shitey Because Of My Leg

 

I had a LOVELY day yesterday and no one spoilt it. Little Emily arrived with a big beautiful bunch of wildflowers for me that she gathered on her walk down to my house and she brought us an apple and gooseberry pie – when I first glimpsed the pie my innards flipped in disgust, I thought it was another Wabbit pie, but no, it was an apple and gooseberry pie and very yummy it was too. We ate it after we ate the Cumberland sausages and before we ate the plain Victoria Sponge Sandwich Cake (sorry, Judith, little Emily snaffled the last quarter that I’d saved for you) and everything we ate was scrummy and yummy and we stuffed our faces like the little greedy gannets we are.

After our feast we were too full to do anything so we sat and talked for a while. Then we got bored with talking so we decided to play a game – Scrabble, which is one of little Emily’s favourites of the games I’ve introduced her to (another favourite is Cluedo and another is Crazy Taxis – ‘Ram his arse, Dotty, ram it hard!’). I don’t really like playing Scrabble with little Emily, not because she always wins but because she’s so fucking SLOW to put a word down, her little hand goes back and forth from her letter holder to the board, from the board to her letter holder, and she umms and aahhhs and bites her lip and screws up her eyes and you’d think she was contemplating THE ORIGINS OF EVERYTHING not just whether ‘bat’ will give her more points than ‘cat’. But I was doing my best to be a good friend because I don’t mind telling you I’ve missed her and I don’t want to scare her away like I have with all my other friends. Sometimes I miss them too, but not often, they were all a set of bitches, the lot of them — except Kathryn, she was nice. I didn’t scare Kathryn off, she moved away and by the time I started answering my phone again she’d been gone for over two years and she’d stopped leaving messages on my answerphone. She’d given up on me, the cow.

Anyway, to cut a long happy day short, little Emily and I had a long happy day ending with little Emily deciding to stay the night. She made us a nice cup of hot chocolate to take up to bed and that’s when my leg got scalded, the dozy bint spilt hers down my shin and jesus christ and his nails it hurt like fuck, I let out a scream that should have shattered the windows but it didn’t, they’re all still intact. Little Emily ran for some water and came back with it in my TOOTHBRUSH MUG with my toothbrush still in it, I said ‘what the fuck do you want me to do with THAT, brush my teeth while MY LEG IS BUBBLING UP WITH BLISTERS?’ She ran downstairs and she was gone for AGES and when she came back she had a bowl with EGG WHITES in it, (she took so long because she’d been trying to separate the eggs and couldn’t do it without a bit of yolk going in it) and then she poured the EGG WHITES on the sore bit and said I had to sit still until the EGG WHITES dried, so I did, I sat as still as a fucking meringue.

I didn’t sleep much, as you’ll have probably guessed. And if I couldn’t sleep I was fucked if I was letting her have a good, restful night in the land of Noddy. No, I made her stay up with me and run round after me and feel guilty for CRIPPLING ME and BURNING A BIG HOLE IN MY LEG, THE SAME LEG THAT WILL SOON BE AMPUTATED BECAUSE GANGRENE WILL SET IN UNLESS I’M PROVIDED WITH A CONSTANT SUPPLY OF THE SPECIAL PROTEIN THAT’S FOUND ONLY IN CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES. It’s amazing what a Victorian will believe, you can tell them anything - as long as you say it’s been PROVED BY SCIENCE they’ll lap it up like scabby, starving kittens at their milk. 

So off she went this morning to buy some more eggs from the farm they get their eggs from and I hope she remembers to bring me something nice to eat, I told her I need chocolate (Lindt, lots of it) it’s a proven fact that chocolate is good for the circulation and I need to keep my blood going round or my leg won’t heal and necrosis will set in and eat my leg and it’ll turn black and drop off. And ice-cream (Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food, 4 tubs) to help unthicken the chocolate as it works its way through my veins. And those little cheesecakes you get in packs of four, toffee ones (2 packs) because something in the process of putting cheese in a cheesecake results in essential nutrients being fast-tracked to the skin, ensuring rapid healing and the forming of good, healthy scar tissue.

I’m going to watch the first series of Dexter again with my leg up – it’s the best series of Dexter even though I know his brother did it – and wait for little Emily to come back with my goodies. Then she can make our dinner – Cumberland sausage sandwiches. And I’ll have a little cheesecake or two for my pudding. And then a bit of chocolate. And then a bit of ice cream. And then I’ll probably need a little sleep, but little Emily will be here to watch over me.

I love my little best friend.

 

 

Zippedy Doo Dah, Zippedy Day, My Oh My What A Dottyful Day

 

I’ve been up since stupid o’clock making preparations for when little Emily arrives later this morning. I made a big batch of Cumberland sausages yesterday, I made more this morning, I’ve CLEANED SOME THINGS like the kitchen worktops and the kitchen chairs and the kitchen table and I haven’t cleaned the kitchen floor yet because Numpty the Boilerman cleaned a section of it the other day and that’ll do for now, I’ve dusted my laptop with my funny little laptop duster (mine has eyes and it’s pink and it stands up on its one big foot) and I’ve emptied the kitchen bin but I haven’t put the rubbish out because I don’t want to have a panic attack this morning, I want to be all calm and collected when she arrives.

And today, fingers crossed that anyone still wants to read my little blog, I should reach – dah dah – 10,000 hits on my little blog AND I HAVE MADE A CAKE TO CELEBRATE and it’s a VICTORIA SPONGE SANDWICH CAKE, just a normal one, no added medicinal extras because little Emily likes her cakes plain. And I have a little sticker that lovely WordPress gave me yesterday for 1,000 likey-likes and let me just see if I can make it stay where I put it (I’m rubbish with pictures)

Please stick to the page.

I’m not showing off or anything (I’m not like that), I just NEED YOU TO SEE IT so fingers crossed it does what it’s told and doesn’t shag up my page.

I wonder if I’ll get a badge for my 10,000 hits? And I wonder WHO WILL BE NUMBER 10,000?

Little Emily’s going to be SO EXCITED!

eeeekk, eeeeeekk, eeeeeeeeeeeekkkkk!

 

 

 

Little Emily Has Almost Stopped Being A Morky Bitch!!

 

Branwell sorted it all out for me, he told her she’d better get down here to see me or he’ll use the pages of her novel to make his roll-ups with. He’s been trying to get her to come here for days, he said he’s sick of her slouching round the house spouting moody poems and shite, even Charlotte became fed up of her miserable face and that’s saying something because Charlotte’s face is EVEN MORE MISERABLE than little Emily’s so she’s got no room to talk.

So little Emily has been and gone this afternoon and she’s coming back again tomorrow. I told her about my migraine and how nice Branwell had been about giving me more laudanum to replace the extra I needed to take that day and all she said was she doesn’t like The Fucking Migraine Poem, it doesn’t scan properly, it has too many verses and I should be highly ashamed of it. Well, yes, I am now.

She wanted all the gossip. She asked if I’d had any comeback from dibble after I dosed Sergeant Sherlock’s Cumberland sausages with laudanum that day, but no I haven’t, I haven’t heard dicky-boo from them and that’s fine by me.

We’re not quite as easy with each other as we were but I suppose it’ll take time for her to come out of her strop completely, she doesn’t half know how to hold a grudge. As a gesture of friendship I said she can have a whole blog post of her own to do what she likes with - and she cheered up then, of course she did, she’s been dying to have a blog post – I asked why she doesn’t just do her own blog and she looked at me like I was stupid and asked ‘In which century was the internet invented, Dotty?’ Oh, yeah.

But don’t expect her blog post any time soon, she always makes a right meal of her writing – she has to have everything perfect and JUST SO, she’d edit edit edit until the cows came home if Charlotte let her. Write it straight into the blog post box thingy like I do, I said and she shuddered and called me a slap-dash heathen and I called her a fucking luddite and by the time she left we were almost back to normal. 

I’m off to make some more Cumberland sausages for tomorrow – she puts away a fair amount of scran for someone so little, I don’t know where it all goes.

 

Dotty Strategies For Nice People (Part 1 – Work Colleagues)

 

Anyone who reads my little blog knows that I’m an exceptionally tolerant She-Hermit. Live and let live, turn a blind eye, rise above it - they’re good ideals to live by, very good, but principles like that can lead to horrible people treating us like doormats, stomping all over us with their big honking feet, knowing we won’t retaliate because of the moral position we’re in.

But we CAN retaliate. We can get the fuckers back in ways their stupid, myopic little brains could never conceive of. Here’s how –

 

Sneaky Bastards At Work

We’ll begin with work colleagues. BASTARDS, THE LOT OF THEM - in particular those who hold positions just below yours - every single one of them is OUT TO STEAL YOUR JOB. Those who hold an equal position to your own are OUT TO STEAL YOUR PROMOTION. Those above you are OUT TO STOP YOU FROM REPLACING THEM IN THEIR POSITION because they know full well you would be a zillion times better at the job than they are. Every single person you work with is OUT TO GET YOU in one way or another so you have to be prepared to defend yourself when they launch a sneaky attack.

Sneaky bastards at work are very sneaky. They know all the jargon to use especially if the workplace is a setting where things like political correctness, diversity, inclusion, tolerance etc etc are important, such as a college or university. They can talk the talk all right, better than you can, but dig deep enough and you’re sure to come up with some MASSIVELY HORRIBLE FAUX-PAS they’ve made that would get the nasty fucker SACKED AND MADE JOBLESS FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIFE if it was made known – and you can be CERTAIN of this because although they make all the right noises to all the right people, each day YOU can see the glaringly shitey way they carry out their duties, the short-cuts they take, the mess they leave for others to clean up. Knowledge is power and sometimes it’s satisfying enough to know you hold the power to destroy their career and sometimes a quiet, friendly word in their shell-like (I KNOW WHAT YOU DID, FUCKER) is enough to put a halt to their scheming meanness even if you DON’T know what they did because there’s bound to be something, there always is.

But usually it isn’t enough. These people are brazen egomaniacs (and I’m still talking about ALL work colleagues here, even if they’re pretending to be your friend – THEY ARE NOT YOUR FRIEND) and will call your bluff by running to the powers-that-be with imprecatory complaints and accusations about YOU, malicious and defamatory LIES that WILL BE BELIEVED because let’s not forget one important thing - THE POWERS-THAT-BE ARE ALSO SNEAKY BASTARDS, EVEN MORE SO BECAUSE THEY’RE EXPERIENCED SNEAKY BOSSY BASTARDS and they will always protect their own.

But there ARE ways for a nice person to defend themselves against WORK COLLEAGUES. Here’s a list —

 

ALWAYS carry a recording device and ALWAYS keep it handy and ready to be switched on.

2  Hidden little cameras can work in your favour if placed strategically (don’t be afraid of them, they’re YOUR cameras)

3  Be meticulous with your work emails – never gossip, never forward gossip that’s sent to you, never call anyone names even though it’s the best and funniest and most apt name and you just KNOW it’s so hilarious it’ll become the person’s new nickname and everyone will think you’re a brilliant wit – no they won’t, they’ll just GRASS YOU UP like the sneaky bastards they are.

4  Learn how to hack into computers so you can see everyone’s emails. Sneaky bastards can also be stupid bastards and email evidence is admissible when you’ve had enough of being nice and want to get their nasty arses SACKED.

5  Once you’ve mastered hacking you’ve got the bastards. You can hack into their email accounts and write emails to the bosses saying things like “I WILL KILL YOU” or “YOUR WIFE IS A RIGHT GOER, ISN’T SHE?” or “STOP DOWNLOADING ANIMAL PORN IN WORKTIME, YOU FUCKING BEAST.”

6  Follow them home (concentrate on one work colleague at a time or you’ll get muddled up) and wait outside their house to see if they go out again then follow them to where ever they go and TAKE A GOOD CAMERA WITH YOU. I bet you’ll find they indulge in some NASTY HOBBIES like DOGGING and SELLING THEIR BODIES ON THE STREETS and DRESSING UP LIKE BABIES IN ADULT NAPPIES AND HUGE PRETTY BONNETS and HAVING LARGE LADIES SIT ON THEM. These are the people you’re working with, you have a RIGHT to know what they get up to in their own time. What’s wrong with nice hobbies like yours – Wednesday night ZUMBA CLASS and Thursday evening BOOK CLUB and Saturday morning HIKING CLUB? Each and every one of your work colleagues is, in their own way, A FUCKING PERVETED DEVIANT and if you follow them for long enough you’re sure to find out their dirty little secrets.

 

 

Bide your time until the time comes when an opportunity arises for you to blow the bastards out of the water. And it WILL. Be WATCHFUL, be WARY, be CAREFUL and you’ll get them in the end.

And you’ll still be a nice person.

Very nice.

Very nice indeed.

 

 

Normal Dotty Services Will Soon Be Resumed

 

I haven’t written a post for my blog yet, I didn’t get up till after midday. Not that it’s any of your business, why do you want to know what time I got up? I don’t ask YOU what time YOU get up, do I? It’s just plain nosiness that’s what it is and I’ll ask you to remember whose fucking blog this IS, it’s MY blog, I’m the BOSS OF MY BLOG and I’ll get up whenever I bleeding well WANT to get up, my name’s DOTTY HEADBANGER not fucking ROYAL MAIL or whatever the American or Canadian or Australian or Netherlandian or Colombian or whatever country you are on my list version of ROYAL MAIL is – if you want your post to arrive on time RING THEM UP AND ASK WHY THEY’RE SUCH TARDY BASTARDS.

You’ll get a new post from ME when I’m good and ready so stop nagging me, I’ve been INCAPACITATED you know, didn’t you read THE FUCKING MIGRAINE POEM? What do you think THAT was all about, do you think I wrote it for your ENTERTAINMENT? – no I did NOT write if for your entertainment I wrote it because it’s all I COULD write because nothing else had happened to me while I was lying there IN FUCKING AGONY.

Fucking blog. Can’t a She-Hermit sleep in on a Saturday morning after being INCAPACITATED? nag nag nag nag nag.

 I NEVER sleep in, I’m up between 5.30am and 6.30am every morning, weekends included. AND THE ONE TIME I SLEEP IN BECAUSE I WAS INCAPACITATED THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY AND IT’S WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE give me a post, I want a post, if you don’t give me a post I’ll just nag and nag and nag, do a post, do a post NOW, do one do one do one.

NO I WON’T DO ONE. So fuck off, I’m going to make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast now, I haven’t had anything to eat for two days – no it’s more like THREE days. Do you want to see me STARVE?

I might be back later with a new post, I might not, it depends if I can be ARSED TO DO ONE. I might have other more interesting things to do like EXAMINE MY ELBOWS.

So there. Stick THAT up your blogging WordPress and swivel on it, fucking nagging fucking BELL-END of a fucking blog.

 

The F***ing Migraine Poem

 

Light, light, light

bright fucking light

bright bright bright

bright bright

fucking light

beautiful

like Sirius in my eye

 

Dread dread dread

overwhelming dread

dread dread dread

dread dread

fucking dread

of what’s about to happen

in my head

 

pins pins pins

tiny stabbing pins

pins pins pins

sticking in

fucking pins

paralyse 

the whole of my right hand side

 

Sick sick sick 

sick vomit sick

sick vomit sick

sick sick

fucking sick

and more sick

and more and more and more sick

 

sharp sharp pain

high piercing pain

pain pain pain

pain pain

fucking pain

white spikes of fire

from my brain

 

still still still

stay fucking still

stay fucking still

still still

fucking still

stay fucking still

stay absolutely fucking still

 

hour hours hours

long fucking hours

long like days days days

fucking hours and hours

and hours

of pain pain pain

pain pain

 

sleep sleep sleep

blessed fucking sleep

sleep sleep sleep

sleep sleep

fucking sleep

and when I woke at dawn

the fucking migraine had gone

 

strange strange strange

very fucking strange

strange strange strange

strange strange

fucking strange

this eerie otherness

that will stay with me for days.

 

 

Stinking Stillness – (What To Do)?

 

the towels stink

i stare at them and stare at them and stare at them

but they still stink

 

Dotty’s SECRET PLAN For Retrieving Her New Towels And Her Washing Up Basins From The Back Garden

 

Right, this SECRET PLAN of mine is going to surprise you. Shock you even. It shocked ME when it slammed itself right to the front of my thoughts, knocking all other possible plans that might have been forming back down into the strange and shady pit of my subconscious. It took me a while to get my head round the fact that THE PLAN was really there, shining and magnificent, the ANSWER to a problem I hadn’t had time to think and worry about. A little MIRACLE had happened.

But it wasn’t just the presence of THE PLAN that astounded me – it was THE PLAN itself, what it entailed, what it implied, what it MEANT, not only in relation to the retrieval of my new towels and my basins but, if I could pull it off successfully, FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

I won’t tease you by spouting lines and lines and paragraphs and paragraphs of distracting words to keep you in suspense and keep you reading because you might get bored of having to wade through word after word after word, and line after line after line, and paragraph after paragraph after paragraph. We Who Are Mental can have short attention spans and you might lose the thread and just skip down the page to The End to see what happened, or worse still, you might LEAVE THIS PAGE. But if you were to skip down to The End to see what happened, or if you were to LEAVE THIS PAGE you’d miss me

 

 

eeeeeekkk! eeeeeeeeeeekkkkkk!!!! eeeeeeeeeeeekkk!!!

 

 

GOING OUT OF MY HOUSE ALONE

 

 

Yes, yes, you did, you read it correctly. I went out alone. On my own, on my todd, solo-solo-marco-polo. I DID IT.

She-Hermits, He-Hermits, everyone else – I bet you’re gagging to know HOW – well, I’m going to tell you, you’ll just have to hold on a minute while I turn my Cumberland sausages before they burn on one side.

 

♪♬♪ dooby-dooby-doooooooo

dooby-dooby-doooooooo ♬♬♪

 

You can tell how excited I am, can’t you? I NEVER EVER EVER leave my Cumberland sausages to cook by themselves without keeping a supervisory watch over them to stop them spitting at each other and violently rolling into each other’s sides. It’s just not worth it, an unevenly cooked Cumberland sausage can be just as bad as an undercooked Cumberland sausage, but I’ve turned the gas down now so they should be okay.

Okay, how did I do it? How did I GO OUT OF MY HOUSE ALONE? Actually I don’t really know,  I JUST DID IT. I didn’t think about it, instinct or something must have taken over, I didn’t even put any shoes on, I just grabbed a cold Cumberland sausage from the fridge, stuck it half in - half out of my mouth so I wouldn’t scream - in case I dropped it and also to nibble on for sustenance and energy while I was running – then I unlocked the back door and RAN.

And you should have seen me - I was like USAIN BOLT, like the WIND ON LEGS, faster than the speed of light, I was REALLY fucking fast, if anyone was watching they wouldn’t have SEEN ME I was that fast, I’d have been nothing but a SPEEDY LITTLE BLUR before their eyes, THERE and GONE, what WAS that?

RUN, FORREST, RUN!

Four strides to the corner, four strides back. That’s eight strides, eight record-breaking fast-as-fuck STRIDES I DID OUTDOORS.

Waaaaahhhhhhooooooo!

And in between was the swiftiest little pick-up ever. I didn’t even STOP for the pick-up and I had TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW, WET TOWELS to pick up. TWO. It was like a sprinty dance the way I did the turn and the pick-up at the same time while still managing to keep up the flow and the momentum of the run itself – FUCKING FLUID AND BEAUTIFUL, that’s what it was, like Dancing On Ice except it wasn’t dancing it was running and it wasn’t on ice it was on my concrete path – and those TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW WET TOWELS were really heavy, I thought I was definitely going to drop them or snap my hands off at the wrists and I knew how the skaters must have felt during PROP WEEK on Dancing On Ice, it’s bloody well hard you know, you don’t realise HOW HARD it is when you’re watching them on the telly because they make it look SO EASY, and so did I, I made it look like a piece of piss, I’d have been TOP OF THE LEADER-BOARD if Robin Cousins had been in my garden, judging me, and if Jayne and Chris had been there too they’d have FUCKING LOVED IT, they’d have wanted to COACH ME but I’d have said no because I don’t think I’d like ice-skating, I like to keep my feet firmly on the ground, thank you, but I wouldn’t mind having a go at the FLYING ROUND THE RINK thing, that looks like SUBLIME MAGIC and ROMANCE on a safety harness and a sturdy length of steel wire.

I reached the back door again and as I entered the house I let the TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW WET TOWELS drop onto the kitchen floor and I executed a STRIDEY LEAP over them that would have only scored maybe a low four because I was knackered by that time and all the power had gone out of my legs.

My heart was thumping, not panicky thumping, good thumping and I flopped flat over the kitchen table to get my breath back. I was SO PROUD OF MYSELF, SO VERY FUCKING PROUD that I wanted to ring Lottie and tell her what I’d just done, but I couldn’t get up and by the time I did get up to shut and lock the back door the urge to ring her had gone.

This is the SECOND TIME I’ve been out since I started my little blog back in December of last year. But it’s the FIRST TIME I’ve been out ON MY OWN for THREE YEARS.

In the space of a few days I’ve planned the party that wasn’t a party (planning it counts?) and I’ve GONE OUTSIDE MY HOUSE ON MY OWN.

What’s happening to me?

 

 

Cometh The Boilerman, Cometh The Flood – The Book Of Dotty: 10:20 (am)

 

Numpty the boilerman came back this morning with the parts he needed to fix the boiler. I don’t know what they were, I kept myself hidden in my laptop reading through someone’s blog while he did what he had to do. He rang yesterday evening so I knew he was coming and this time I took extra beta-blockers and a big, BIG swig of laudanum to help me cope while he was here. 

I was in the living room to save my ears from imploding and so he couldn’t talk to me and make me even more panicky. The boiler is in the utility room at the back of the house. He’d been here about half an hour when he came to the living room door and tapped on it. ‘S’cuse me, love, have you got some old towels?’

Old towels? Oh for fuck’s sake. ‘How bad is it?’

‘No, it’s not too bad, don’t worry yourself.’

I went to have a look.

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE, AND NOT A DROP TO DRINK 

Why are people so FUCKING USELESS?

I got him some towels from my airing cupboard, which weren’t old towels they were NEW towels from the collection that fell on me the day Granny Euphemia came to see me. I thought - why am I not in a right tizz, panicky and terrified, but I wasn’t, no, my extra medication must have been just right. I’ll have to write down what and how much I took so I know for the next time something comes up. I took the towels downstairs and waded through the big puddle near the back door.

He pointed at the cooker and said, ‘If you start there you’ll stop it running underneath.’

Me??

ME??

I DON’T THINK SO

So I calmly said –

YOU INCOMPETENT TWAT OF AN ARSEWIPE, YOU CAN FUCK OFF. YOU MOP IT UP OR YOU MIGHT AS WELL WHISTLE FOR YOUR MONEY BECAUSE YOU WON’T GET ANY OF MINE.

and I went back into the living room and carried on reading the blog.

Another hour and a half later he tapped on the door again. ‘I’m finished, love.’

And guess what? He had.

The boiler is working, no leaks, and he did such a good job mopping up that my kitchen floor has PATTERNS IN THE LINO THAT I’D FORGOTTEN ABOUT.

I might ask him if he wants a cleaning job, cash in hand.

So all’s well that ends well.

Amazing.

Except I don’t know what he’s done with the new pack of towels I gave him.

Where are they?

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I can see the towels but I can’t get them. The bastard’s left them in my two washing up basins OUTSIDE. I can’t reach them because they’re JUST ROUND THE CORNER, I can see about eight inches of towel and about one inch of basin. What will I do, what will I do?

 

 

Why Do I Bother? Eh? Tell Me, Because I Don’t Know

 

Right, to start with I’ve put my newest fascinating collection on display here –

 Dotty’s List Of Collected Countries

 

Next, I want to ask why loads of you have just rudely dismissed the work I put into making YOUR  new page

Dotty’s Pet Blogs 

Have I got MUG written across my forehead? Do I do these things for the good of my health? NO I FUCKING WELL DON’T –  SO, FOLLOWERS, READERS - GO AND ADD YOUR BLOG TO THE LIST and other people will visit you and follow you and we will all be like ONE BIG HAPPY FUCKING FAMILY.

ALL RIGHT?

WELL GO ON THEN, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

 

 

I HAVE  850,492,786.5 FOLLOWERS AND ONLY 17 OF YOU HAVE POSTED LINKS TO YOUR BLOGS ON DOTTY’S PET BLOGS. SHAME ON YOU ALL.

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT —- If you’re wondering, the Dotty’s Pet Blog page is working, I’m seeing more clicks than ever before. So I don’t know why you wouldn’t want to add YOURS to the list, unless you don’t want anyone to read it, but in that case MAKE IT PRIVATE.

 

 

A Dark Shitey Rhyme (Not Happy At All So Don’t Read It If You’re Feeling Down, My Chickies)

 

The God In The Corner

 

Look inside my head.

What do you see?

Darkness and ugliness

crawling through me;

deathly and cruel

like the venomous asp

or the sly anaconda

tightening his grasp.

 

Witness my madness

and sadness and woe,

creeping and crawling,

pathetically slow;

laying thick traces

of putrefied slime

that harden and freeze

with the passing of time.

 

Thanatos waits with his

watch in his fist,

hating and timing

this pulse in my wrist;

tapping his feet

in time to the ticks

with a nod to the Ferryman

moored on the Styx.

 

And I want to, I want to,

I want to so much -

run  to him, plead with him,

feel his cold touch;

but I can’t / and I won’t

and I can / and I will

and I do / and I don’t

so he teases me still.

 

 

Happy Mother’s Day, Meine Mami – Here’s A Brilliant Rhyme For You

This is a Happy Mother's Day flower for meine Mami. I can't give her a real flower because I don't know where she is.

 

 

 

If anyone got a post in their email that isn’t here now it’s because it was a PICTURE POST that I made for meine Mami for HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY with some lovely pictures and captions and it was lovely and it was FUCKING BRILLIANT – but it SHAGGED MY LITTLE BLOG RIGHT UP because I can’t do pictures. So I’ve made a little rhyme instead –

 

 

 

 

 

A HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY RHYME FOR MEINE MAMI

 

Where have you gone, meine Mami?

It’s been years since we last had a hug,

since then my brain has gone gammy -

it’s all manky and skanky with fug.

I miss your old legs, meine Mami,

and the fun and the laughs of our games

with the butter and mayo and jammy

that we spread on your varicose veins;

and your laugh, like a crying old donkey

with its tail trapped in somebody’s door;

and your eyes, even though they are wonky

and as grey as the dust on my floor.

Please, please come home, meine Mami,

your absence is harder than stone

and it hits with a quadruple whammy

each hour when I’m sitting alone.

Meine Mami, I miss and I love you

so much that it makes me feel sick;

when you want to come home I’ll be waiting

with a Cumberland sausage sandwich and a plate of McCain’s Chippy Chips and a packet of Hobnobs and a BRAND NEW BRICK.

 

 

 

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MEINE MAMI

 

 

 

 

Yet Another Dotty Gloomy Shitey Poemy Shitey Pile Of Shite (Sorry)

 

Wraith

 

like some ancient, lost ethereal thing

on and on I stumble

 

down springs, autumns, winters, summers,

into the slows and sloughs of remembered other days

 

where I sift through piles of sighs

green with lichen and moss,

 

harvest memories of a kiss,

a smile, a touch, an eyeflash

 

 

there are no flowers…

just memories, like raptors, gather

 

 

another dawn breaks

and I wake

crying in colours and mad, mad sparks,

trying to suck the screams back into my heart

as the sun

my beautiful sun

slides from the throat

of the beast

 

 

I Cooked And Baked And Blew Up Balloons But There Won’t Be A Party, It Was All For Nothing, No One Is Coming

 

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

Does anyone want a Milk Chocolate Cumberland Sausage bun? I have 24. I made two batches this morning. And I made two batches of Dark Chocolate Cumberland Sausage buns too (80% cocoa solids), in case little Emily and Lottie felt they were too old for Milk Chocolate Cumberland Sausage buns. They’re nice, I put Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons on top.

I also made a Cumberland Sausage trifle (like a traditional sponge trifle but without the sponge – I used Cumberland sausages instead). And I made a cake that DOESN’T have Cumberland sausages in it, it’s an Opium & Laudanum Sandwich cake that I made for Branwell because when little Emily told him about the party he got excited and said he wanted to come, and that’s what I’m going to eat all by myself, I’m going to scran the whole fucking lot of it, my Opium & Laudanum Sandwich cake with FRESH CREAM AND JAM.

Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

They all said they wanted to come. I expected Lottie to decline but she surprised me and said yes.

I surprised myself by even considering having a jolly-up, by even allowing the idea inside my head when Judith put it there. What type of She-Hermit has a PARTY?

A RECOVERING type of She-Hermit has a party and that’s what I went to bed thinking, maybe this is the first step on the road to recovery for me, maybe this party is the start of getting my life back again.

I should have known though, shouldn’t I? Fool, fool, fool. Fucking stupid simple gullible fucking fool.

 

You’re too late for a bun. I smashed them up with my brick during my shaping session. You can lick the chocolate buttercream out of my hair if you want to though, before it dries up.

 

I don’t know what to do with all these balloons. They’ll hurt my ears if I pop them. I can’t open the back door to set them free in case little Emily and Branwell are still outside, waiting for a chance to get in. She’s mad at me, foaming. Raging.

 

The phone won’t shut up either. Ring fucking ring fucking ring fucking ring, as soon as it stops it starts again, RING RING RING RING RING RING RING  

 

LEAVE ME ALONE, LOTTIE

LEAVE ME ALONE

LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can’t stop crying

but it’s MY party

and I’ll cry if I want to.

 

 

Numpty The Boilerman And His Lack Of PARTS

 

He’s been.

Finally.

But guess what, it’s sod’s fucking law he has to come back again next week because I WAS RIGHT and the boiler needs two new PARTS that can’t be ordered until Monday so won’t arrive until Wednesday but he doesn’t know WHEN he will come to fit them. If he had come yesterday when he was supposed to he could… oh, frig it, what’s the point?

He’s been.

And DIDN’T lock him in.

I didn’t hit him.

I wasn’t sick on his shoes.

I didn’t have a panic attack (came close a couple of times).

I didn’t cry in front of him, just a few tears that I managed to blink away.

I don’t THINK he heard my heart battering away, or me whispering my special mantra for peacefulness and calm, taught to me by HIS HOLEY CHEESENESS, THE DAIRY FFARMA (fuckshitebastardfuckshitebastard) but he did keep giving me funny looks so it’s possible he might have noticed.

I did stutter, but for all he knows I might HAVE a stutter and there’s nothing wrong with having a stutter, it’s only if you have a stutter when you’re a TRAMPY SHE-HERMIT that it really bothers people.

I don’t think I was TOO mental.

I did shake slightly.

I made him a cup of tea because he asked for one.

I didn’t shake enough to scald his hand when I handed him the cup of tea he asked for because I didn’t hand him the cup of tea he asked for, I left it on the kitchen worktop for him.

I did scream once but it wasn’t a mental scream it was a METAL scream due to sudden excrutiating HURTY NOISE in my ears when the bastard was trying to get the front of the boiler off and IT SOUNDED LIKE A GIANT METAL AEROPLANE SCRAPING ACROSS MY ROOF BECAUSE I HAVE HYPERACUSIS AND THE FUCKER SHOULD HAVE DONE HIS JOB QUIETLY LIKE I TOLD HIM TO.

I bleached the cup when he’d finished his tea.

And then I bleached my hands that had touched the cup that he had touched with his mouth before it was bleached.

He had stupid hair.

And he was a CHATTY BASTARD. But I know how to deal with CHATTY BASTARDS. I told him I’m deaf, which I’m not I just can’t hear properly, so he shut up and only spoke to me to ask me what he had to ask me which wasn’t much.

I wanted to go away from where he was. I really wanted to.

I couldn’t, for all the reasons that everyone can’t when they have a STRANGER IN THE HOUSE —

they steal your things

they sneak a look in your cupboards and drawers

and your fridge

they eat the food in your fridge (and I had made HEAPS of Cumberland sausages to see me through THE DAY OF WAITING)

they write rude things in the dust

they plant secret hidden mini-miniature cameras all over your house

they look for hiding places so they can sneak back in and hide until you’re asleep (which means you can’t go to sleep again)

they PISS IN YOUR SINK

they drink your beer if you have any beer, which I don’t because I don’t drink beer or any other alcoholic beverage - I am TEETOTAL apart from my morning ABSINTHE & BANANA SMOOTHIE, which doesn’t count because  

1 – Absinthe is made of WORMWOOD which is a plant I grow in my garden, therefore Absinthe is a PLANT EXTRACT like SUNFLOWER OIL.

2 -  My ABSINTHE & BANANA SMOOTHIE is a FRUITYHEALTHY, NUTRITIOUS SMOOTHIE FULL OF VITAMINS AND GLOOPY GOODNESS  

3 – I drink it in the morning and if I were drinking alcohol in the morning I would be an ALKY which I AM NOT.

 

So I survived - but I’m fucking shattered, wiped out from two days of high stress and high anxiety (I watched that once, long ago) and a few panic attacks.

And there are at least five days to go until he comes back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Made A New Page For You While I’m Waiting For The Boilerman

 

It’s for you all (y’all) to add your links to your blogs and so you can find other good blogs to read.

SPREAD THE LOVE, MY CHICKADEES, far across the wide, wide, WordPress.

Add your own blog to DOTTY’S PET BLOGS.

And go and visit each other.

But always come back to me.

Because I love you.

You are ALL beautiful.

And sparkly.

No exceptions.

Except one.

 

Dotty Is Slightly Miffed With The Boilerman

 

 

 

 

OY, BOILERMAN – see that writing in the picture? It’s for YOU, you LYING FIBBING SHIRKER.

Just you wait till morning - that’s if you ARRIVE in the morning and you don’t make up another excuse not to come. ILL? yes right, what with? DOUBLE PNEUMONIA? BERI-BERI? E-COLI? THE BUBONIC PLAGUE? ill my fucking granny’s gums, you are NOT ill if you’ve got anything wrong with you it’s MAN FLU, you woosy-arsed whiney fucking WIMP. If you want to see ILL you should have seen me today WAITING FOR YOU TO COME AND FIX MY BOILER but just you wait, tomorrow I’m not taking ANY of my FUCKING PROPANOLOL and tonight I’m not taking my FUCKING MIRTAZAPINE AND MY FUCKING NIGHT BETA-BLOCKERS AND I’M NOT TAKING ANY FUCKING PILLS AT ALL TONIGHT OR TOMORROW SO IN THE MORNING YOU WILL GET THE FULL EFFECTS OF ME NOT TAKING MY FUCKIGN PILLS AND THEN YOU WILL KNOW WHAT BEING ILL IS YOU LYING LITTLE BASTARD AND i WILL LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR SO YOU CAN’T GET OUT AND YOU’LL THNK YOU ARE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND YES YOU WILL BE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND THAT FUCKING LOONY WILL BE ME. 

 

Little Bitty Pretty One & Big Hat-Wearing Ugly One (And The Boilerman)

 

LOOK WHAT LITTLE BITTY PRETTY ONE MADE FOR ME!

A VIDEO!!!!

 

BUT

My boiler is leaking and I had to ring A MAN who will be here sometime before 8pm tonight. WHY CAN’T THE FUCKER GIVE ME AN EXACT TIME? Now I have to wait and wait and wait and it’s a long, long wait, it’s been an hour already since I had to use the phone to ring him and in that time I’ve taken three beta-blockers, a big swig of laudanum, and a good sniff of the smelling salts little Emily gave me. I AM STILL PANICKY THOUGH and I feel very, very sick.

HE WILL WANT TO ASK ME ABOUT THE BOILER.

AND I WILL HAVE TO TELL HIM.

WHICH MEANS SPEAKING TO HIM

AND LOOKING AT HIM IN A WAY THAT DOESN’T SEEM TOO MENTAL, SO HE THINKS I’M LOOKING HIM IN THE EYE BUT REALLY I’M NOT LOOKING HIM IN THE EYE, I AM LOOKING THREE INCHES TO THE RIGHT OF HIS EYES.

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

oh

i feel sick.

 

I Said Oops Up Side Your Head, I Said Oops Up Side Your Head

 

I used to like this song (the one in the title) when I was young but I spent hours and hours and hours and hours trying to work out the meaning of the title. I still don’t know what it means and little Emily is just as puzzled as I am. It’s stupid. It’s a good song, but it’s stupid.

 

We’ve been going through some of my records.

 

Where’s Adam Ant? I loved Adam Ant with his stripey face and flamboyant movements of his arms. 

STAAAAAAND AND DELIVER,

YOUR MONEY OR YOUR LIFE

 

 

And little Jimmy Somerville. WHERE IS LITTLE JIMMY SOMERVILLE? Bronski Beat. Yeah.

 

And that group, what’s-their-name, who sang

RED, RED, WINE

STAY CLOSE TO ME

ALL I CAN DO I’VE DONE

DI DI DA DA DA

 

Why can’t I remember their name?

I KNOW IT.

I’ve always known it.

Kingston Town.

Cherry-O-Baby.

ALI CAMPBELL was the singer.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

IT’S ANNOYING ME.

 

TELL ME IT SOMEBODY

PLEASE

NOW

THANK YOU

 

 

Dotty’s 100th Blog Post (And It’s F***ing Brilliant) …

 

… or it would have been if I could have been bothered writing a post. But I can’t be bothered, I’m knackered after all the commotions and shite so I’m going back to bed and this is all you’re getting today.

Anyone have a problem with that?

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I came back because I forgot to tell you what I did. LOOK HERE  

 

I AM A HACKER

AND IT IS GOOD

BECAUSE CLOWN’S ARSE IS ON FIRE

AND HE’S IN A BAD MOOD

 

 

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

 

GOTCHA, BOZO.

 

Dotty Has A Date With Her Pet Policeman

 

Eeeeeeeeekkkkk! Eeeeeeeeeeekkkk! Eeeeeeeeeekkkkk!

I have an OFFICIAL NEW BOYFRIEND who is an OFFICIAL OFFICER OF THE OFFICIAL POLICE WHO UPHOLD THE OFFICIAL BRITISH LAW.

It’s MY PET POLICEMAN, SERGEANT SHERLOCK.

He told me his real name again but it’s something boring so I don’t want to remember it, but he let me give him a sweetheart’s nickname because he’s a big softie. I call him PIGGY-WIG and he calls me MADAME HEADBANGER because I’m not some old slapper of a tart who lets men call her by her first name on THE FIRST DATE.

Yes, we had a DATE. A real one. This afternoon. He came round with PC Plod (his psychic police twin) and Sniffy, their little sniffy dog, on the pretext of giving me a Caution for wasting police time. He came in and pretended to give me the Caution, then he sent PC Plod and Sniffy off on a fake drug hunt round my house so he could get me alone.

‘I know you’ve manipulated the situation to get me alone to tell me nice things, but stand back or I’ll kick your bollocks up through your brain,’ I said. ‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia? That means I’m scared of PEOPLE which also means YOU. Nothing personal though, I still want to be your girlfriend. Piggy-Wig.’

‘Madame Headbanger, I assure you I have no intention of coming near you,’ he said.

I gave him a wink, then another few winks to make sure he noticed the winks because my eye’s still a bit swollen. I winked to let him know I was IN ON IT - our love had to be kept secret from PC Plod who wouldn’t think twice about grassing up Piggy-Wig to the Chief Inspector for romancing when he should have been at work.

‘Do you want a Cumberland sausage sandwich?’

‘I really shouldn’t … ah, go on then.’

I whipped the plate out of the keep-it-warm bit of the oven. ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier. Six I prepared earlier.’

He gobbled them down. And he had good eating manners - he kept his mouth closed and he didn’t make ANY disgusting noises. ‘Great sausages,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Very nice. Thanks.’

“My dear friend Dotty makes wonderful Cumberland sausage sandwiches.” At the first syllable I turned round, whoosh, and there was little Emily smiling at me, holding out her arms for a big cuddle.

‘Little Emily!’ I ran over to her, and while we were having our big cuddle I heard Sergeant Sherlock’s chair move back from the table.

‘Madame Headbanger! Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. I am now. This is my best friend in the world, Miss Brontë. Emily, this is my new boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock.’

Piggy-Wig looked at me, then at little Emily, then at me again. ‘Madame Headbanger, come and sit down.’

‘No. You’re not one of those controlling men who won’t let me have friends, are you? I won’t put up with that, my dead husband would tell you I won’t. If he wasn’t dead.’

Little Emily tugged my cardigan sleeve and whispered, “Beware! He has the look of a sly fox! He is plotting against you!”

I whispered back, ‘Don’t worry, little Emily, I can handle him.’

Piggy-Wig took his phone out of his pocket. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call.’

‘Okay.’

He went towards the back door. Then he stopped. He stood still for 48 seconds (I counted), and then he started swaying. I went over and guided him back to the chair, singing a little song for him -

♬♪ When Marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make me sway.

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more. ♬♪♬

Little Emily said, ‘Oh Dotty! Dean Martin! Do you own a recording?’

‘Yep. I’ll dig it out for you later.’

She clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful!’

‘Will you help me with Piggy-Wig, please? He’s slumping and he weighs a ton.’

‘Move to the side. I know just the way to manouevre a man in a fugue. I have plenty of experience.’

In two shakes she had him sitting up straight at the table, then she did something with his head to stop it lolling. His chin was on his chest and he had a stupid grin on his face.

We left him at the table and went into the living room so I could look for my Dean Martin cd. While I was looking we had a little discussion about which Dean Martin song was best, SWAY or MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS. We’d just decided that we couldn’t decide between them when we heard stomping across the ceiling.

‘Goodness, Dotty, why did you refrain from mentioning another policeman in the house?’

‘I forgot. There’s a sniffy dog as well. It’s called Sniffy.’

‘What shall we do?’

‘I don’t know. I thought it would just be Piggy-Wig who came to see me. I didn’t know he was going to bring his psychic police twin with him.’

Next minute there was a massive clatter of noise as Sniffy started barking and came galloping down the stairs dragging the shouting PC Plod behind him. They ran right past us and into the kitchen and by the time we got there Sniffy had started going mental, barking his head off at Piggy-Wig and pulling so hard on his lead in his attempts to get to him that PC Plod had to brace himself on the kitchen worktop to stay upright. He got his radio out and told the other end that he needed assistance. Within five minutes there were more policemen in my kitchen than EVER before (and a young policewoman who had her hair scraped back in an unflattering way – she would have looked nicer with a fringe), then two paramedics (I think they were both paramedics, but one might have been just a normal ambulanceman), then just me and little Emily again. We sat for hours listening to Dean Martin, then there was a knock at the door.

The Big Chief Inspector! I hadn’t seen him since the night I killed Simon.

Come to apologise to me for me having to witness ‘…the dastardly doings of a drug-addled police officer.’ – his words, not mine. And who says ‘dastardly’ these days anyway? Well, obviously he does. But who else?

So there it is. I always pick the bad ones. I don’t know why I even thought it would be different this time.

Never mind though, I made myself some Cumberland sausage while I was making Piggy-Wig’s (naturally), and me and little Emily are going to spend the evening with Dean Martin, who looks even better in real life than he does in those old films on the telly.

 

Dotty Wants To Batter Someone But She Can’t So The Police Will Have To Do It For Her

 

Someone just sent me an email and in it they asked me a horrible, insulting stupid question that I think you should all see –

Is Little Emily your go-between drug dealer?

And here’s my answer that I’m writing here instead of in an email so I have evidence for when I SUE YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE AND FOR ALL YOU WILL EVER EARN –

NO SHE IS NOT MY GO-BETWEEN DRUG DEALER, YOU FUCKING KNOBROT.

For one - little Emily is an AUTHOR

for two – she is DEAD

for three – what gave this stupid tosser the idea that I take drugs? Have I ever mentioned taking drugs? NO. Medication - YES, but drugs – NO I HAVE NOT. AND I DO NOT APPRECIATE THE INFERENCE THAT I HAVE.

I’m ringing the police. I’m ringing 999 and they’ll come straight away and when they do I’ll show them the email and tell them I want the fucker done for SLANDER. And I’m ringing Sergeant Sherlock who is now my PET POLICEMAN AND ALSO MAYBE MY NEW BOYFRIEND BUT WE’LL JUST SEE HOW IT GOES who will make sure the 999 police arrest that person and show them some good old-fashioned police brutality.

HOW CAN THEY SAY SUCH A HORRIBLE THING? HOW CAN THEY?

 

 

Dotty Is Friends With The Police Again (But They’re Coming For You, Clown)

 

The police called round to my house again last night.

It’s been a few weeks since I saw them last, on THAT night – see Dotty In The Darkness (with lots and lots of swearing) - and I must say I’ve missed their sweet little 12 year old bum-fluffed faces that always look so SERIOUS. And I’ve decided to forgive them for THIEVING MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL because after many, many, many hours of rageful thinking about WHY they STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL, it came to me one day that maybe the policeman who STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL needed it for himself because being a policeman must be a stressful job sometimes – I wouldn’t want to have to spend my days (or nights if I was on night-shift) climbing trees to rescue stupid cats. Who would? Let the fuckers fall and then maybe they won’t SHIT ALL OVER PEOPLE’S GARDENS, maybe they’d be too frightened to go out in case they fell out of a tree and they’d stay in their own house and shit in there instead. (Or is that Firemen who rescue cats? Same difference).

Two policemen came to see me.

1  Sergeant Sherlock

2  PC Plod

They’re not their real names. I can’t remember their real names so I gave them aliases. They were new policemen, I’d never seen either of them before and I know all the local bobbys.

I didn’t hear them at first because they came to the front door and knocked on that but bricking it up must have provided a layer of sound-proofing so I only knew they were here when I heard them battering on the back door. I panicked a bit at the sound of banging on the back door, I thought it was someone wanting to dump THE BERSERKERS on me again, but I answered it and it was the police and my heart gave a little skip (not a panicky palpitation) because I thought they’d decided to give me my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, but when I said ‘Have you brought my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, the STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL that one of you Keystone fuckers THIEVED FROM ME,’ Sergeant Sherlock said no, they hadn’t, they were here about the noise.

Eh? What noise?

‘Singing,’ he said. ‘Very loud singing.’

‘Oh, that.’ Fucking nosey neighbours AGAIN. ‘It was me and Clown, we were singing duets and rounds. We were bored.’

‘Clown? Clown who?’

CLOWN, you clown.’

‘Surname?’

They’d tried to trick me with that one before, asking for my surname and when I told them it they said no, we mean the other person’s surname. But I was one step ahead of them.

‘Fire’

‘Where?’

‘No, that’s Clown’s surname, you knobhead. His middle name is On, but he doesn’t spell it with a capital O and I’m not sure if that’s because it’s spelt that way on his Birth Certificate or if he’s just minimised the size of the letter to try and look cool.’

‘Is Mr Fire still here?’

‘No, don’t be stupid. How can he be here? He’s at home.’

‘When did he leave?’

They were asking such daft questions I couldn’t help laughing. ‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. He was never here.’

PC Plod piped up, ‘Stop being unhelpful, Miss Headbanger. Mr Fire and yourself were disrupting the peace. We need to speak with him.’

‘It isn’t MISS Headbanger, it’s MADAME Headbanger. I have been married you know.’

PC Plod again, ‘So where is your husband? Is he here?’

‘No. I killed him.’

They didn’t say anything for a long time, they just looked at me. The silence was getting creepy so I said, ‘Don’t worry, he isn’t under the floorboards or anything. It was a long time ago and I was found not guilty.’ Bless their little rubber bullets, they each breathed out a long breath at exactly the same time, like psychic synchronised twins.

‘Where is Mr Fire?’

‘Do you feel each other’s pain?’

‘What?’

‘You know, like when one twin gets battered round the head, the other twin feels EVERY BLOW.’

‘Are you threatening us?’

‘No I’m NOT threatening you. I was just ASKING for fuck’s sake. Hoy, hang on, why are you looking at me like that? It’s police intimidation. I’ll report you.’

The Sergeant coughed. Well, it was more of a throat-clearing harumph. Actually no, it was a timely little bark. ‘Will you tell us where Mr Fire lives, Madame Headbanger?’

‘Yes, he lives in Canada.’

‘So he wasn’t part of the singing that disrupted the peace?’

‘Yes he was.’

‘I think you need to come down to the station with us.’

Oh fuck. I HATE going to the station because of my HERMITITIS AND PEOPLE PHOBIA.

‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Do you want a Cumberland sausage?’

Sergeant Sherlock’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, you’re THAT Dotty Headbanger. The one with the Cumberland sausages. The lads down the station say you make the best ever Cumberland sausage sandwiches.’

‘Yep, that’s me, guv.’

And an hour later they left with their bobby-bellies full of Cumberland sausage sandwiches to go next door to arrest the noisy neighbours who won’t stop banging on my wall.

 

 

 

 

CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES TO THE RESCUE YET AGAIN? IS THERE ANY  FEAT OF SUPER-HERO-NESS THEY’RE NOT CAPABLE OF? NO, NOTHING CAN STOP THEM.

Where Are You All Coming From?

 

Where are you all coming from?

From Smurfland where we belong…

 

BUT YOU’RE NOT, ARE YOU?

Because I don’t have any visitors from Smurfland on my new Stats Map thingy.

I don’t even have a MAP, I only get a LIST.

Is it cos I is British?

Is that why I don’t have a map?

Or any visitors from Smurfland?

Is it?

 

Ah, fuck it, I’m going to bed.

Goodnight, Finland. You’re the closest I have on my list to Smurfland because your name ends in ‘land’.

So goodnight.

 

 

 

Dotty Sundays Are Very Very Boring

 

I’ve eaten a lot of Cumberland sausages today because I’ve been bored out of my skull and my eye still hurts. I don’t know WHY Sundays are so boring, they’re just the same as every other day for me, here in my house, because I CAN’T GO OUT, but there’s a boring Sunday feeling to Sundays that I don’t get on the other days.

tO RELIEVE SOME OF THIS shitey boredom, i’M WRITING THIS SENTENCE WITH THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON SWITCHED ON, but i’M ALSO USING THE SHIFT BUTTON IN TWO WAYS, FIRSTLY i’M USING IT JUST AS i WOULD IF THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON WASN’T SWITCHED ON, AND SECONDLY i’M USING IT AS A shouty tool EXCEPT IT DOESN’T look to be working because this part looks more like a whisper than a shout. wHAT DO YOU THINK?

i’M GOING TO MAKE SOME MORE cUMBERLAND SAUSAGES. i MIGHT AS WELL STUFF MYSELF UNTIL i can’t fucking move.

I AM SOOOOO FUUUUUCKING BORED. BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED

 

Where’s my brick?

 

 

 

Hermit Tip – How To Get An Eyelash Out Of Your Eye When There’s No One Around To Get It Out For You

 

It’s a bastard when you get an eyelash in your eye and you can’t get it out and no one else is there to get it out for you. I had one this morning, I felt it stab my eyeball at 8.22 am and I’ve only just managed to get it out. And now my eye’s all red and gungy and it’s almost swollen closed - I can only see half of this box I’m writing in, I keep having to move my head along to follow the words so I don’t make any mistakes.

Here’s a sequential list of the tactics I used in my attempts to get the eyelash out.

MY FINGERS – I started with the index finger on my right hand (because I’m right-handed) but that finger hasn’t got much of a nail to catch the eyelash with and if you don’t catch it when you first feel it you’re fucked because what happens is you start PRODDING AROUND YOUR EYE with your finger which irritates the eyeball so then your eye starts watering and the eyelash becomes MOBILE, like a little beached log on a rising river, and when the water reaches the eyelash - away it floats and the chase is on.

2  I lost the eyelash for a while and I thought yes, it must have come out with the water, but no it didn’t because when I was drinking my coffee I felt it stab again, this time under my top eyelid - the most annoying place it could have migrated to. So the next thing I tried was EYEBALL ROTATIONS with closed eyes, which can, if you’re lucky, dislodge the eyelash (you should alternate between rapidly rotating your eyeball and doing it very slowly for the best chance of success with this tactic). But this time the EYEBALL ROTATIONS didn’t work, the eyelash remained stuck up there, somewhere near the outside corner.

3  PULLING THE TOP EYELID DOWN OVER THE BOTTOM ONE AND CONTINUING WITH THE EYEBALL ROTATIONS WHILST HOLDING THE TOP EYELID IN PLACE was the obvious thing for me to do next, but I didn’t do that because the eyelash had moved down a bit towards the pupil and I thought if I looked in a mirror I’d be able to see it and hook it out with a FINGERNAIL. The only problem was I don’t have any mirrors in the house so I had to go round the house looking for a reflective thing. I didn’t find one for two reasons – 1 – dust – and 2 – I kept having to blink so if there is a reflective thing in my house I blinked and I missed it.

PULLING THE TOP EYELID DOWN OVER THE BOTTOM ONE AND CONTINUING WITH THE EYEBALL ROTATIONS whilst holding the top eyelid in place. I tried it. It didn’t work.

FOLDING THE TOP EYELID BACK OVER ON ITSELF so you look like you’re half zombie. This is an awkward but often beneficial tactic if you have a mirror or a reflective surface to look in because sometimes you can catch a glimpse of the eyelash sitting on the eyeball or on the lid itself. But, as I said, I don’t have those things so I had to do it blind and just hope the manouevre itself was enough to dislodge the fucker. It didn’t.

RUBBING AND POKING - I’d been trying to avoid RUBBING AND POKING because this tactic can become very aggressive but there comes a point when you just have to because by then you’d do ANYTHING to get the fucking twatting bastarding thing OUT OF YOUR EYE.

 

THE RESOLUTION

A COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE – Why didn’t I think of this in the first place? Idiot. CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES solve EVERYTHING. What I did was I got a COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE from the fridge, cut an end off and popped it in my mouth to eat, and then I held the remaining big bit of COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE in my hand for an hour in order to heat the flat end of  the COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE to body temperature. Try to avoid RUBBING AND POKING while you’re waiting (I couldn’t avoid it). Once the COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE was warm enough I manipulated the flat warm end into my eye, very carefully, and when it was in and the eyelids were holding it firmly in place, I left it there and I made another cup of coffee and just went about my normal daily life. After a couple of hours I removed the BODY TEMPERATURE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE and examined it under my magnifying glass – AND THE EYELASH WAS ON THE END OF MY BODY-TEMPERATURE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE.

BOSH! I WON – I GOT THE LITTLE FUCKER!  – and my eye should heal up in three or four days.

 

 

P.S. And before you ask, yes I DID give the WONDERFUL VICTORIOUS CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE a good wash before I ate it. What do you think I am, a TRAMPY GANNET?

P.P.S.  It tasted FUCKING LOVELY.

 

 

 

Little Emily’s Book Reviews by Ellis Bell

 

I’m sick and tired of little Emily nagging at me to let her write a post on my little blog. Who wants to read her posts? She should get her own fucking blog if she’s that desperate instead of trying to write on mine. I’ve resisted and resisted her but this morning she turned up at my house with a final draft of her FIRST novel which is unpublished as yet because she’s been busy writing the one with Heathcliff in it and she hasn’t bothered sending this first one off yet. And, bless her big white cotton bloomers, you’ll never guess what she’s been doing these last couple of days? Copying out the whole novel BY HAND – yes, bloggy people (and COF) writers used DECIPHERABLE HANDWRITING to write before typing was invented – and she did it ALL FOR ME. So the least I can do in return is compromise – I can’t let her have a whole post to herself but I asked if she wanted to do some book reviews and she (quite grudgingly, for some strange reason) said yes, she would like to do book reviews. I made it very clear that she isn’t TAKING OVER the book reviews, she’s got this post and that’s her lot so she’d better make a good job of it, no shoddy writing or spelling mistakes or bad grammar or thoughtless punctuation because you won’t find any of those things anywhere else on my little blog and I won’t stand for it on this post either. And no ink blobs either (her hands are stained to fuck).

So, I’ll hand you over to little Emily who’s sitting next to me waiting for me to turn the laptop round to face her.

 

(hurry up, idiot, they’re waiting)

 

 

Dear Reader,

Good afternoon. My name is Ellis Bell and I am a man. I am a man for whom a good book is an essential requirement for a content and happy day. I am a man (I am a man) with a life-long, deep-held appreciation for words. I am a literary man of literature and letters. I am a man of books.

 A book review is, ideally, a delicate examination of the inner workings of the author’s craft, and of the outer manifestations of the author’s ability to execute said craft. I am a man with a delicate eye with which to see. I am a man with a delicate hand with which to underline. I am a man with a delicate tongue with which to critic and praise. I am not a fierce man. I am not a harsh man. I am a fair and subtle man. I am a generous man. I am a gentle man.

I shall commence with the first book which has been selected for review by Mme D. Headbanger…

 

Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

(The girl, Tess, hails from a place in the southern counties. I managed to determine her unfortunate origins by hearing her speak for a short time. Her accent is dreadfully thick, excrutiatingly so; it is such that I can not elicit one single, legible sentence from her. I refuse to waste the little space and time allocated to my reviews in the arduous task of translating her words. We shall continue to the next on the list).

The Moonstone – Wilkie Collins

(I do not wish to review this book. My brother provides a generous and ample supply of laudanum-fuelled writings for my sisters and I to peruse. Besides, the author is a wicked, immoral cad).

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

(My dear, dear friend! Please, I beg of you, do not force me to go in there. Dotty, I implore you! Miss Havisham has fleas!)

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

(The pretty face of Dorian Gray is undeniably enticing, however, I am forbidden to venture into the realms of this works by my dear father, a pious man of God, who has read of the author’s imprisonment and refuses to allow his daughter son to associate with ne’er-do-wells and lags).

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

(What is this? What is it?)

 

I have had quite enough of this foolishness. The books listed for review are not of my choosing; I deeply regret that I did not stand firm and insist upon the choices I myself made. I have squandered my one and only opportunity to become a far-famed blog author, lauded and esteemed, praised and admired throughout the Empire. If only my choices had been acceptable to Mme D. Headbanger, but what possible use are ‘if onlys’, now, at the summit of my shame?

Disgrace is upon me. I must hasten home.

Yours, in spasms of mortified ignominy,

Ellis Bell

 

 

Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t feel sorry for her, you should have seen HER list – actually, I’ll show you it or it’ll be me who ends up being the bad one in this –

 

Confessions of a Shop-a-holic

Bridget Jones’s Diary

Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason

Mills & Boon – a  Doctor & Nurse romance

A book by Barbara Cartland

 

 

That’s what she had on her list.

Fucking stupid Victorian. Why do I bother?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wind That Blows Between Their Ears

 

 

Oh, but they are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. STUPID. When I tell you who I’m talking about you’ll agree with me and if you don’t, if you’ve ever said this thing that they say, which I’m about to tell you – well – well I don’t know what I’ll say to you if you have ever said it except DON’T EVER SAY IT AGAIN because it’s one of the most stupid things you could ever say. Saying it makes you look stupid, and I know you’re not stupid or you wouldn’t be reading my little blog.

Imagine you’re watching a game show. It doesn’t matter which one, just make it one that has a quizmaster, a contestant and a question.

The contestant is in his twenties. He’s answered most of his (or her) previous questions, he’s been to university, he’s got a good job. He doesn’t SEEM stupid –

UNTIL

the quizmaster asks the next question and the  next question is something like one of these questions —

 

In which year did England win the world cup?

In which year did Elvis Presley die?

How long did Queen Victoria reign?

Who was the first man on the moon?

How many Number One songs did the Beatles have?

 

 

 

And the contestant’s answer is 

 

‘I DON’T KNOW, I WASN’T BORN THEN.

 

 

On how many levels of STUPID does this contestant live? ALL OF THEM, that’s how many. I was going to do a long post about EACH LEVEL OF STUPIDITY but I decided not to because if you don’t know how STUPID this answer is then have a little think about it and if you still don’t know – DON’T ASK ME because all I will say is YOU ARE VERY, VERY STUPID AND YOUR STUPIDNESS WILL ONLY BECOME MORE STUPID AS YOU GET OLDER, YOU STUPID,STUPID PERSON.

 

 

 

 

P.S. Did anyone notice the absence of swear words in this post? Did you notice how well I did? Not even ONE swear word. I deserve a treat for that and I’m going to have one. Now.

 

 

Dotty and Lottie (But Not For Long)

 

 

Morning (barely) and I was woken up AGAIN by banging at the back door. I’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table sometime in the early hours, I can’t remember when. I think the last time I looked at the clock it was 3.42 am but it might not have been, I don’t know.

This time it was Lottie. She barged past me the second I had the door opened, storming into my kitchen shouting ‘WHERE ARE THEY? WHERE ARE MY GIRLS?’

‘Hold your horses, will you. They…’

‘TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE!’

‘I fucking ATE them, where do you think they are?’

She made towards the door that leads to the stairs, ‘PRISCILLA! CECILIA!’

‘Shut up, you silly cow, they’re sleeping.’

She turned round. ‘Are they all right? Were they upset?’

‘What do you think? He dragged them here in their pyjamas, they were crying their eyes out.’

‘Oh God.’ She sat down at the table. ‘I nearly died when I went into their rooms and they weren’t there. You could have rung me, you know, why didn’t you?’

Cheeky bitch! ‘Because I was SETTLING YOUR KIDS – that’s why. Anyway you’re a bit late to notice they’re gone, aren’t you? They’ve been here since half nine last night.’

‘He didn’t tell me. I got up this morning and… ‘ Then she BURST INTO TEARS.

Lottie did. 

She BURST INTO TEARS (sorry I just had to say it again, I couldn’t resist, I haven’t seen her in tears since we were little). She BURST INTO TEARS and sat there crying for a bit.

I watched her. She doesn’t cry like normal people, she makes a strange HAHURR, HAHURR, HAHURR noise in amongst all the snivelling. I think there was a moan or two in there as well but I couldn’t swear on it because of my tinnitus being so bad. I hate people who moan when they cry, they do it for attention - just CRY for fuck’s sake, don’t make a big show of it, no one gives a toss.

After a couple of minutes I put the kettle on to make a drink. ‘Tea or coffee?’ I asked.

I think she said tea so I made her tea. I had coffee - I don’t like tea, it tastes like soggy washing. I wanted to make some Cumberland sausages for my breakfast but I thought it might look a bit heartless if I put the frying pan on while she was still crying, but then I thought no it won’t because I’ll say I’m making Cumberland sausages for THE BERSERKERS’ breakfast.

‘I’m making Cumberland sausages for THE… girls’ breakfast. Do you want some?’

‘No.’

Fair enough. Wait till she got a whiff of them cooking, she’d want some then.

‘Do you want toast instead?’

‘I don’t want anything.’

Fine. I got on with making my breakfast. Two Cumberland sausages each for THE BERSERKERS, six little beauties for me. I was starving.

My Cumberland sausages were quarter-cooked when she said, ‘Did they get to sleep all right?’

‘Yep.’

‘What about Cecilia? She won’t go to sleep if she doesn’t have her teddy.’

‘She didn’t mention a teddy.’

‘Oh.’

Silence again except for the sound of the Cumberland sausages cooking. Hiss, hiss, pfff, pfff. And an occasional sniff from Lottie. I got the bread and butter out, and the plates, and a couple of cups for THE BERSERKERS’ milk. 

‘Wayne’s seeing someone else.’

WHAT? FAT-FUCK? SHAGGING AROUND?! HA HA HA HA HA!

‘He’s leaving me. That’s where I went last night, why I left the girls with Scotty. I followed him to her house.’

I turned the gas down so my Cumberland sausages wouldn’t burn. I didn’t know what to say to her. What CAN you say? So I said, ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘No, me neither, I thought we were happy, everything was fine. I can’t believe he’d do this, he always says the girls and I mean the world to him.’

‘No, I mean I can’t believe someone else would want him.’

Oops.

‘What do you mean?’

In for a penny, in for a pound – ‘Come on, Lottie, he’s a fat wanker – he’s a waste of good eyesight. You’ll be well rid of him.’

That did it.

‘WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT MY HUSBAND? HE IS NOT A FAT WANKER, HE’S WELL BUILT AND HE’S A PROPER MAN, NOT LIKE THE WIMP YOU MARRIED AND WHERE IS HE? OH LOOK, HE’S DEAD BECAUSE YOU MADE SUCH A GOOD CHOICE OF MAN YOU HAD TO KILL HIM.’

‘That’s a bit below the belt. And who said I HAD to kill him?’

She got up fast, scraping my chair across the lino.

‘Don’t do that, it hurts my ears.’

‘Fuck off, Dotty.’

Woohhooooo! She IS human. Off she went to get THE BERSERKERS and I let her, I could see it would all end in more tears if I didn’t (ha, she BURST INTO TEARS). I went back to cooking my Cumberland sausages which were almost done. A couple of minutes later I heard the toilet flush, then again, then they all came into the kitchen.

‘Cumberland sausages for breakfast!’ I said.

‘We’re going.’

‘No mummy,’

‘Yes!’

‘I’ve made their breakfast.’

She ignored me and handed THE BERSERKERS their coats. ‘Put them on.’

‘Want to thtay here.’

‘PUT YOUR COAT ON.’

And twenty seconds later they were gone and it was like they had never been. Except I had ten lovely Cumberland sausages for breakfast instead of six.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dotty Settles The Berserkers And Tells Them A Story (A Good One)

 

After Useless Judas stormed out of my house I locked and bolted the back door then I shouted to THE BERSERKERS to come back into the kitchen because Uncle Scotty had gone. When they appeared in the doorway they looked like little war orphans and I could have cried at how pitiful they were but I didn’t, I got them a cup of milk and a cold Cumberland sausage each from the fridge and I got myself a glass of Diet Coke and four cold Cumberland sausages from the fridge and I said come on, let’s take these up to bed.

I carried my glass of Diet coke and the two cups of milk (any pedantic wisearses reading this - before you say it, no I don’t have three hands – the cups have HANDLES). THE BERSERKERS carried all six of the cold Cumberland sausages between them in their pudgy little GERMY hands and normally after they’d touched them I’d have had to give my cold Cumberland sausages a good scrub under the cold tap before I ate them but that was before I had little Emily’s WABBIT PIE. No food can faze me now.

At the door to the spare room Prissy, the eldest, said, ‘Can we sleep in with you, Auntie Dotty?’ I didn’t get chance to say no, they were off like a pair of muggers into my bedroom, on top of my bed.

OY, mind the Cumberland sausages. Don’t get bed on them!’ I didn’t have the heart to kick them into the spare room even though I knew I was in for another night of no sleep if I let them stay (have I ever told you I’m nice and kind like that?) so I put their cups of milk and my glass of Diet coke on my bedside table (which was, to my surprise, surprisingly collection-free - little Emily must have had a tidy up) and I got onto the bed with them.

‘You two, give me my Cumberland sausages.’

‘Can we eat ours?’

‘Yep. Erm, why are mine damp? Have they been licked?’

The GLANCE OF NAUGHTINESS that usually passed between THE BERSERKERS when they were up to something didn’t happen so I knew my Cumberland sausages were spit-free. Poor little things, they’d been traumatised by Useless Judas shouting at them. I knew I had to ask them THE question, whether or not he’d smacked them, but I was nervous of the answer they’d give because he’d been so wound up he could easily have lost it with them, and if he had there’d be no way he’d admit it to me. I had to do it with subtleness though.

‘Did Uncle Scotty smack either of you?’ I said in the very slow high voice people use when they’re asking kids a delicate question.

Neither of them answered. Oh-oh.

‘Did Uncle Scotty hurt you? You have to tell me if he did.’

Prissy shook her head. ‘We hurt HIM. She bit his sore finger and I hit him in the front bum with the Wii remote.’

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA – I managed not to laugh out loud, I turned away and got my glass of Diet Coke so they wouldn’t see me trying to hold my face straight. ‘That was very naughty, girls. You shouldn’t hit people.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Thorry.’

‘Right, finish your Cumberland sausages and drink your milk so we can go to sleep.’ I wanted to ask them where Lottie and Fat-Fuck had gone and why Useless Judas had been left to babysit at all – he’s the last person I would have expected Lottie to leave her kids with – but that could wait till morning, I had to get them to sleep before the four beta-blockers I’d taken ran out of power.

We got under the covers, me in the middle because they wanted me there but I couldn’t do with being in the middle, it was too much like being trapped between two bald monkeys so I had to get Prissy to climb over to the other side of Cissy. After the scramble I said, ‘Lie down now and go to sleep.’

‘Tell me a thtory. Winnie-the-Pooh.’

‘I want Cinderella.’

Fuck. I can’t remember stories.

‘Please.’

‘Pleathe.’

‘Howsabout I make up a story?’

‘Yeth. Make up Winnie-the-Pooh.’

‘Okay let me think for a minute. Right, erm, once upon a time there was a bear who lived in the woods. He SL… ‘

‘That’s Winnie-the-Pooh. I don’t want a baby story.’

‘Yay, Winnie!’

‘Shut up and listen. He SLEPT in the woods, he ATE HIS DINNER in the woods, he PLAYED in the woods, but the one thing he DIDN’T DO in the woods was SHIT IN THE WOODS. His name …’

‘You thweared, you thweared!!’

‘… his name was WINNIE-THE-SHITE… ‘

gaspy screams of shocked laughter, hands clamped to their mouths as though they’d said the word themselves – EXACTLY the reaction I’d hoped for to cheer them up a bit (see, I DO know what to do with kids, I bet you thought I wouldn’t have a clue, didn’t you?) except now I had to think of more story.. ‘so one day Winnie-the-Shite had been for a shit in the nearby town and was trying to get back to his home in the woods when he got lost. He wandered round and round the trees but all the trees looked the same and he couldn’t find a tree he knew. He wandered all day and just as it started to get dark and he started to get scared he saw a pretty little cottage with smoke coming out of the chimney and Winnie-the-Shite thought to himself, ‘I wonder if anyone’s in?’ So he went and knocked on the door but there was no answer so he tried the door and it wasn’t locked so he opened the door and he looked inside. Everything was like it is in The Three Bears story —- do you know The Three Bears?’

They both nodded.

‘Goldiwockth’

…. ‘and Winnie-the-Shite thought to himself, ‘I think I’m in The Three Bears Story, I’d better get out of here before they come back and think I’ve eaten their porridge.’ But the porridge smelled lovely and when he went over to the cooker and lifted the lid on the porridge pot, and looked in the porridge pot, the porridge LOOKED lovely ..’

‘No, Winnie-the-Thite, don’t eat it!’

… ‘and he picked up the big wooden stirring spoon and dunked it in the porridge and he got a BIG gloop of porridge and he ate it. And it tasted nice but it needed a bit of salt to make it taste LOVELY so Winnie-the Shite looked round the kitchen for the salt but he couldn’t see any, so he started opening the cupboard doors and looking inside the cupboards but he couldn’t find it in any of the cupboards. He wondered if The Three Bears kept their salt in the bedroom so he opened the door to what he THOUGHT was the bedroom and ‘OH MY GIDDYGODDYJESUS,’ said Winnie-the-Shite when he saw what was in the room…’

‘What? What?’

‘It was a TOILET. But Winnie-the-Shite had never seen a toilet before and he didn’t know what it was, so he tiptoed across the floor to it and bent down and did what bears do to things when they don’t know what they are – he SNIFFED it!’

‘YEEEUUURRGGGHHHHH!’

‘EEEEEWWWWWWWWW!

‘And the PONG made him jump back in disgust. He ran back to the kitchen but the door he opened wasn’t the kitchen door it was the bedroom door and on Baby Bear’s small bed he saw a sleeping girl with thick, golden curly hair, just like Cissy’s hair, and he knew it was Goldilocks so he ran over and shook her awake and said ‘Come on, Goldilocks, we have to get out of here, The Three Bears will be back in a minute and THEY ARE DIRTY MINGING BEARS WHO SHIT IN THEIR OWN HOUSE, come on, come on, hurry up!’

‘Come on, come on!’

‘So Winnie-the-Shite and Goldilocks ran out of the bedroom and found their way back to the kitchen where Goldilocks stopped and refused to move until she had some porridge, but Winnie-the-Shite knew The Three Bears were on their way home so he said, ‘Let’s nick the WHOLE pot of porridge and we’ll eat it when we’re safe,’ so they each took a handle of the porridge pot and they ran out of the house and into the woods.

They ran and ran and ran, far into the woods, and when they stopped for a little rest Winnie-the-Shite said, ‘Hang on, I KNOW that tree.’ So he asked the tree, ‘Do I know you?’ and the tree said, ‘Yes, I’m Piney the Prickly Pine Tree,’ and Winnie-the-Shite said, ‘I THOUGHT I recognised you. Can you show me the way home, please?’ And Piney the Prickly Pine Tree swayed his branches in the direction of Winnie-the-Shite’s home and said ‘That way,’ and Winnie-the-Shite said ‘Thank you,’ and he set off with Goldilocks and the porridge pot and soon he was in his own cottage with the porridge pot on the kitchen table and a BIG bowl of salt, and BIG spoons and a new friend and they all lived happily ever after. Amen.’

Quietness. Stillness. Little breaths.

I waited five minutes until I was sure they were asleep then I shuffled round, carefully, and slid one leg out from under the covers. They didn’t stir so I slowly got out of bed and went downstairs. Little Emily was sitting at the kitchen table, writing.

She looked up from her page, ‘Oh, Dotty, those poor, poor little mites. But never fear - I will assist you, my dear friend. You are not alone.’

And she got up and made me a cup of coffee and brought me a packet of Hobnobs to dunk. I don’t know what I’d do without her.

 

 

 

 

 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

DOTTY!

DOTTY!

The panic in his voice got me out of bed and down the stairs and opening up the locks on the back door in less than half a minute. Scotty stood there looking terrified, the same look he’d had the night dear dead Daddy died. Standing next to him, THE BERSERKERS, crying and shivering, still in their slippers, their coats thrown over their pyjamas.

‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’

‘Let me get in first.’ He half-pushed THE BERSERKERS inside and the youngest let out a sob and came and attached herself to my side. The other one did the same on the other side, their cries getting louder and louder.

‘Is it Lottie? Tell me what’s…’

‘STOP YOUR FUCKING HOWLING, WILL YOU?‘ he shouted, clapping his hands over his ears.

‘WOAH!‘ I gripped THE BERSERKERS closer and walked them back, away from him. ‘Go in the living room, girls, put the telly on. Prissy, get a tissue and clean Cissy’s nose, I’ll be in in a minute.’ They went.

He started pacing the floor of my kitchen, his hands shaking, sweat on his forehead. I could just make out ‘fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck’ under his breath.

‘She’s left you babysitting, hasn’t she?’

‘They’re animals, they’re fucking monsters.’

‘Don’t you DARE call them animals.’ Monsters, yes, animals, no.

‘They never SHUT UP. That little one, fucking milk then biscuits, I said get to fucking SLEEP will you, no, she wants the toilet then a story, fucking Winnie-the-fucking-POOH then another story then the toilet again, then the other one starts and SHE wants a story NOT Winnie-the-Pooh, some fucking Disney thing and I said no, get to fucking SLEEP and that one started crying then the other one started and THEY WOULDN’T FUCKING SHUT UP they went…

‘Right, okay, okay. Did you smack them?’

He looked at me like I’d just bitten his ear. ‘What?’

‘Did you smack them?’

‘Did I smack them? What do you think I am, a fucking baby-batterer? Fuck this for a game of soldiers.’

And he walked out

and left me with THE BERSERKERS.

ALONE

WITH THE BERSERKERS

who were upset and crying in my living room so I took four beta-blockers and I said to myself, get a grip, Dotty, the poor little buggers need you.

I am going to KILL Lottie for this.

 

 

Dotty Book Review – Villette

 

Little Emily has asked me to review one of her sister Charlotte’s books. She begged me to do a hatchet job to get back at Charlotte for butchering some of little Emily’s poems after little Emily died. Yes, little Emily IS dead. Is that a problem for you? Are you a BIGOT who discriminates against dead people in blogs? You’d better not be.

I was going to opt for The Professor because it’s the thinnest of Charlotte’s books, not so many pages of DRONE to get through (I dismissed Jane Eyre because everyone knows Jane Eyre). Instead I chose to review Villette because of course it’s the one I’d choose, me being a she-hermit and knowing a bit about isolation and depression and all the shite that goes with them.

 

DEAD. DEAD. THEY ARE ALL DEAD.

This should have been the title of the book because although the mourning and despairing Charlotte does manage to hide herself adequately behind her main character, Lucy Snowe, she is still very apparent if you look for her – a half-solid shadow walking behind Lucy who every now and again peeps over Lucy’s shoulder and says BOO to the reader. Little Emily tells me that’s what Charlotte is like, a bit nosey, a bit controlling (little Emily is still SO fucked off about her poems) a bit attention seeking.

But Charlotte’s presence in the book doesn’t necessarily distract the reader, whereas the presence of SISTER AGONY AUNTIE DOTTY does – she crept into the book with the intention of SAVING Lucy but she was spotted before she could guide her to a happy ending; Charlotte punched her in the eye and wrote her out and tried to pretend Sister Agony Auntie Dotty was a man in disguise – not a good move, Charlotte, you could have come up with a more plausible lie as a cover-up.

How to describe Lucy? Ugly, mad, loser. Yep, that about covers it. And spinster, which IS a harsh and lonely word but it correctly describes her harsh and lonely life. Some people are frightened of the book because of the madness it contains – Lucy IS mad, nails through brains type of mad (HELLO!) which is why I like her, even though she doesn’t actually DO any trepanning in the book, probably because people would react in the same way as my sister Lottie reacted when she sneaked into my house that night. But nailing through to your brain isn’t good, it’s nothing but amateur over-enthusiastic trepanning -  LEARN TO DO IT PROPERLY, LUCY, OR YOU WILL GET AN INFECTION.

Lucy’s enemy is Reason, (which I understand all too well). She embodies the many conflicting thematic polarities that run through the book – on the outside she’s a bit of a cold fish, not very likeable, but her inner self is passionate and fiery. Fire and ice, life and death, imagination and reality, madness and sanity, fairytale and realism - Charlotte threw them all in, including a lot of red and white (Sister Agony Auntie Dotty’s BIG RED CROSS is left in even though Sister Agony Auntie Dotty got booted). There’s lots of imagery, lots of metaphors, lots of angst, lots of madness, lots of words and a few of Charlotte’s friends from Angria get a look in too (including the changeling with pygmy hands, Paulina, who steals Dr John, the man Lucy fancies JUST when Lucy gets him out on a date).

Poor Lucy never gets the man. She falls in love with M. Paul but everyone else conspires (didn’t I say it – they ARE out to get you) to keep them apart and he goes off to the West Indies. Lucy spends “three happy years” waiting for him while he sorts out a future for them both but when he’s on his way back to get her his ship sinks during a terrible storm and he dies. There are some debates about this ending because Charlotte purposely wasn’t very clear about it, maybe she couldn’t think of a proper ending so she left it open for the reader to decide, which is the lazy way out – (finish your fucking book, Charlotte, you spent a long time writing it) – but for me, he’s dead.

 

 

ADDENDUM — A newly discovered revelation – this book is about Charlotte and little Emily’s sister, Anne. I’m surprised no one else has made this discovery because it’s not hidden very well. The name LUCY SNOWE is the key. Here’s why –

LUCY is the word LUNACY with the N and the A taken out. What does N/A stand for? NOT APPLICABLE – which means the character of Lucy is not applicable to the author, Charlotte.

So who is it applicable to? Take those two letters, N and A, and put them with Lucy’s surname, SNOWE, make an anagram of them and stick LUCY on the end of it and you get ANNE WOS LUCY.

FUCKING OBVIOUS.

 

 

I Am About To Die If I Don’t Eat The Bunny-Wabbit Pie

 

Pies. What do you think of them? Do you eat them? I NEVER eat pies and right now I’m very close to having a vomiting panic attack because little Emily will be here soon and she’s bringing me a pie. She went home this morning to bake it for me. It’s a rabbit pie. Full of rabbits. Cute furry hoppy floppy bunny-wabbits. She TRAPS them up on the moors and WRINGS THEIR NECKS and DECAPITATES and SKINS and GUTS and BONES them and then she CHOPS THE MEAT and puts it inside THE PIE SHE HAS MADE FOR ME.

Oh.

Oooh.

What do I do?

 

I ate the posset she made a few weeks ago and it made me violently sick because what I think of as a posset isn’t a pudding, it’s the term used for BABY SICK. So I was eating the pudding posset, which was white, and trying to batter away thoughts of BABY SICK, which is also white, when I was sick. Terribly sick.

 

NBI’m not apologising for the above paragraph, even if you were scranning your dinner and it put you off, because I WANT YOU TO FEEL MY PAIN AND MY PANIC AND MY QUEASY DISGUST AT THE THOUGHT OF EATING THIS WABBIT PIE that is due to arrive here very, very soon. Any complaints about being put off your dinner should be sent to David Cameron, 10 Downing Street, London, England. Tell him Dotty did it and he’ll have a word with me when we next meet up for one of our regular shin-kicking fights.

(That’s a big lie I’ve just told you because how can I go to shin-kicking fights when I CAN’T GO OUT. Fool. Just write to David and he’ll write me a formidable note telling me not to do it again).

 

If I don’t eat this wabbit pie little Emily will be offended and quite possibly angry. I don’t want to make her angry, not that I think she’d punch me to the floor or use other physical violence on me, she only does that to HELP me (she said), but there’s one important fact I can’t get out of my head and it’s that little Emily is an AUTHOR. And what do authors know about? I’ll tell you what they know about – they know about POISONING. She has a POISONER’S HANDBOOK. I’ve seen it. It’s twice the thickness of my own POISONER’S HANDBOOK (I am not an author (god forbid), I’m a COLLECTOR) and will, I presume, contain poison recipes that use PLANTS TO BE FOUND ON THE MOORS - where little Emily walks every day. And if she fails to find what she wants all she has to do is get Branwell to get it for her. And if Branwell is having one his fugue days she can just dawdle down to the Apothecary and buy it there.

 

 

IF I DON’T EAT THE WABBIT PIE I WILL DIE IN HORRENDOUS WRITHING AGONY, POISONED BY AN AUTHOR WHO KNOWS ALL ABOUT POISONS.

You should know where my will is by now.

JUDITH! GRUMPY! You both know where it is, don’t you?

I’m not exaggerating here, I WILL die if I don’t eat the wabbit pie, no doubt about it.

I need a speedy plan but I can’t think of one.

 

Oh.

 

I need my brick. Where did I put it?

 

 

 

bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang

bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang

ouch

 

 

 

Right, I can think a bit clearer now.

I need a list -

WAYS TO AVOID EATING THE POISONED WABBIT PIE

1

2

 

 

Oh.

 

I know, I could get her pissed - I’ve still got some Horehound & Wormwood Tonic Beer left from a couple of years ago when I made some to try it (Gypsy Petulengro’s recipe book p26). It was strong then, it’ll be stronger now.

But she doesn’t drink. AAAAHHHH – she’s here!

She’s here and the fucking plate is MASSIVE.

And it STINKS. It smells like — I don’t know what it smells like, I’ve never smelt anything like it before so I can’t think of an appropriate analogy to convey the FUCKING FOUL RANKNESS of it.

 

Pity poor Dotty.

Pity me, please.

 

Morning Has Broken, So Has My Toaster

 

Little Emily stayed with me last night. We talked for hours about all sorts of family things, our fathers, our mothers, our brothers, our sister(s), and we talked about me being a she-hermit and what we could do to stop me being a she-hermit but we couldn’t come up with anything feasible that didn’t involve her punching me a lot. She did have one idea, that I should accompany her on her walks on the moors, which sounds lovely, I miss going for walks on the moors, but to get to the moors we’d have to go through the village and PEOPLE are in the village and PEOPLE won’t just mind their own fucking business and let others get on with theirs, they want to say HELLO. Why? Trot on, nosey fuckers. And if they say HELLO and you can’t say it back to them they give you evil stares and you KNOW they’ll be talking about you for weeks, ‘oooh, you know that snooty she-hermit, Dotty, she walked right past me the other day and completely blanked me ‘ and then you’re STUCK IN THE HOUSE AGAIN because how can you face them all when you know they’re talking about you?

We’ve decided I need an invisibility cloak like Harry Potter’s. Actually, we’ve decided the invisibility cloak I need IS Harry Potter’s, his old one, and we thought maybe now he’s living in The Woman In Black he might give me it if I ask him nicely- if you don’t ask you don’t get. I’ll do the letter when I’ve finished writing this post – and little Emily said she’ll help with the wording because saying DEAR HARRY POTTER, GIVE ME YOUR INVISIBILTY CLOAK SO I CAN GO OUT OR I’LL STICK YOUR MAGIC BROOMSTICK UP YOUR MAGIC ARSE, LOVE DOTTY XXX might be a bit too forceful for the dainty sensibilities of a Magician-turned-Actor and he might throw my letter away and with it my chance of getting the invisibility cloak. She said I have to be polite and grovelling and fawning, so basically I have to be a toadying, sycophantic creep – which begs the question, do I want the invisibility cloak badly enough to demean myself in words in order to get something from a BOY-MAN?

Errmmm, let me think —

 

NO. I FUCKING WELL DO NOT

 

because I’ve just had an idea, so I don’t have to.

 

 

 

I’m going to make my own burkha.

 

 

Oh yes, and I forgot to say – my toaster is shagged, little Emily tried to dig her slice of bread out with her knife and blew it up. Luckily she didn’t blow up with it or I’d be left here on my own again.

 

 

 

Little Emily – A Withering Shite (And Then Not)

 

 

Very hurtful remarks have been made to me by someone who shall remain nameless but she’s little, she wears long dresses and tiny boots, and her brother very kindly sorts out my Laudanum requirements.

I don’t want to tell you what she called me. It’s humiliating. I’ve always said she has a way with words but to use them in such a snidey, bitchy manner towards ME  -  HER SO-CALLED BEST FRIEND –  is like using a JCB to dig up a dandelion - FUCKING UNNECESSARY.

And I couldn’t fight back. I was glued to the bed by a big beige glob of apathy, not listening to her at first, not caring what she said.

UNTIL she called me a —

 

 

 

 

 

No.

I can’t say it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, go on then, I’ll tell you. I’ve humiliated myself enough in this blog as it is, once more won’t make any difference.

 

 

 

She called me a SUFFERING CLUCK.

And then she shouted at me –

“You there, woman in the bed. You perceive me to be limp and timid, of no use to you but as a passive listener and maker of hot drinks. You have no concept of what I can offer you as a token of our friendship. Think of it, woman, think of what I DO – I create monsters, I bring forth maniacs, I write of pitiful atrocities, gargantuan brutalities and the cruelty and harshness of human fate. I am NOT a nodding drip. I DESTROY BOOKS IN MY BOOK.”

Her eyes looked like big black shiny marbles.

‘Just fuck off, little Emily. Go away.’

No. This acedia you meekly surrender to will wreck your soul if I allow it further hold on you. Up you get. Up, I say.”

And she PUNCHED ME IN THE BACK.

And it fucking well hurt, right between my shoulder blades, she’s got a right wallop on her. I jumped out of the bed before she could do it again. ‘WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR, YOU SKANKY BITCH?’ I screamed.

She smiled at me and took something out of the pocket of her dress. “I’ve brought a gift. They’re from the sock drawer at home.”

‘How did you get them?’

I mingled nonchalantly with a group of braying Oxford students; I slipped the socks inside my pocket when the Curator turned her back. They are mine, I have a right to take my own clothes. But they’re yours now. Put them on.”

So I did. They’re nice. I’ll have to find something to hold them up though – they’re long, they go up past my knees and when I wear them for more than two seconds they fall down and I’m more like Nora Batty than Victorian Sock Lady. We went downstairs and little Emily made me a cup of coffee and gave me another present, a nice big vial of laudanum that Branwell sent for me. I love little Emily. Look how she’s revived me – she’s even got me using semi-colons.

 

I’m going to make her a Cumberland sausage sandwich for her supper. She deserves one.

 

 

 

 

I Am Dotty, Hear Me Roar

 

RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH

 

 

thats it, im knackered now

i tried

i coloured my words in

and i did a comma

and some roaring capitals

but i couldn’t manage to get my little finger to reach the exclamation mark key

so fuck it

fuck it all

im going back to bed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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