Suspicious Things Happening On My Street

 

It’s pissing it down outside. AGAIN. I don’t mind that it’s cool but WHERE’S THE FUCKING SUN? And what happened to GLOBAL WARMING? Where did that go?

 

Yesterday afternoon I was having a peep out of my window to see if the white van that keeps parking across the road, three houses down, had come back (it had, and it’s still there). I was watching it intently when I happened to spy, out of the corner of my third eye, a scratty, scrawny, soggy-skirted, basket-carrying little woman standing in the rain, all the way up the street on the other side of the road, staring at my house. It was HER. Little Emily. The pygmy dog-man wasn’t with her, not that I could see anyway – he might have been hiding behind the privet hedge of the nearest garden but I don’t think so, there were no signs of her talking to anyone.

I wanted a closer look but in the seconds it took me to reach across to the bookcase for my binoculars, take the caps off and move back the curtain again, she had gone.

What did she want? Why didn’t she come to the door? And what was in the basket?

Branwell is due this afternoon, I’m going to make him tell me what’s going on. If he won’t fess up I’ll kneecap him with dead ex-Simon’s cricket bat.

 

The Morning After Ex-Simon’s Birthday Party And I Think I’ve Killed Branwell

 

He isn’t breathing. His face is white and he hasn’t got a pulse. We played Dare last night and I won. 

WAKE UP BRANWELL!!

I can’t do the hammer-on-the-knees reflex test because he’s lying on the kitchen floor with his legs in the cupboard under the sink and he’s knocked over all the cleaning products – his pant legs are soaked in Fairy Liquid (Lemon flavour, I don’t like the others, they stink).

I’ll try banging my ladle on the arse end of my big stew pot, next to his ear.

Earplugs.

BANGBANGBANGBANG

fucking hell, these earplugs are shite.

 

WAKE UP BRANWELL, YOUR DINNER’S READY. It isn’t really but he loves his food.

BRANWELL!!

Nope, nothing.

 

I’ll put an onion in his eye! Hang on while I slice a bit off.

He’s got crusty bits of sleep on his eyelashes -

- I’ll open the lids with my teabag squeezer—

eeeeeeewwwwww! His eyeball looks like a DEAD FISH EYE!

 

Bollocks. What am I going to tell little Emily?

‘Sorry, little Emily, I’ve accidentally killed your brother.’

Uh-uh, I don’t think so.

 

I know, I’ll sing him a song.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight?

A-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

A-WEEE, A-WEEE

A-WIMOWEH

Fucking neighbours. STOP BANGING. FUCK OFF.

 

A hymn – that should annoy him. 

I only know one hymn and I’ve sung it before on my blog.

Ah, fuck it, everyone does reblogs of their own stuff, don’t they?

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

KUM-BAH-YA M’Lord, KUM-BAH-YA

WOOOAAAHH LOOORRD KUM-BAH-YA

 

Aha! That did it, he’s shuddering!

BRANWELL, YOUR DAD’S HERE!

HA HA HA HA HA HA

 

 

***************

 

 

He’s gone home now and he’s not dead – well, he IS dead but you know what I mean. He’s got a VERY BAD HANGOVER, which I don’t have because I don’t drink alcohol as I’ve already said many times before – I stuck to drinking Absinthe but Branwell also necked the rum and the gin he keeps in his hipflasks.

We had a fine old time of it last night, it’s the best party I’ve been to for years (it’s the only one, but so what, it’s still the best). I might do it again for MY birthday which is in a couple of weeks or so - just to let you know, I’m accepting all cards and presents from NOW.

Oh, before I go – I spoke to Branwell about little Emily. He’s going to bring her to see me this afternoon. He said nothing about why she’s stayed away for such a long time so I dont’ know if she’s in a neck-wringer of a mood with me or what’s up with her, but I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. One thing he said has been puzzling me though – he said ‘Do you truly wish to see her again? Truly, Dotty?’

Why did he ask me that?

 

 

DOTTYGEDDON

 

Today I am practising POSITIVITY and SELF-CONTROL.

I am controlling myself and I am being positive.

 

 

Yes.

 

I am.

 

 

I woke up in a bad mood, not a seething, sawing limbs off slowly bad mood (not my own limbs, some other fucker’s), a RAVING bad mood, a MURDEROUS bad mood, a DOTTYGEDDON bad mood.

 

BUT I have decided to fight it and instead of going off on one I will be a composed ME, a calm ME.

Today I will be THE MODEL OF SERENITY.

 

 

Yes.

 

 

I did a positive thought to negate some negative thoughts –

I CAN’T GO OUT, I HATE THIS FUCKING HERMITITIS, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT

but

at least I don’t have claustrophobia.

 

See, I can do it. I CAN get through this bad mood day without being arrested.

 

And I have a new trick to use when I am in session with my brick. I have a MANTRA to use and now I am going to use it –

 

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

Little Emily is not my best friend, she’s a FUCKING TRAITOROUS BITCH.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

BITCH BITCH BITCH BITCH BITCH I’M GOING TO RIP HER FUCKING HEAD OFF AND FEED IT TO THE HOUND OF THE FUCKING BASKERVILLES.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick

AND THAT SMELLY LITTLE FREAK KUMBLANT, I’LL KICK HIM ALL THE WAY BACK TO SMELLYVANIA OR WHERE EVER IT IS HE COMES FROM BUT FIRST I’LL STAKE THE BASTARD WITH HIS OWN STAKING STICK, I’LL RAM IT AND TWIST IT AND TWIST IT AND TWIST IT RIGHT THROUGH HIS STINKING ROTTEN HEART AND I’LL MAKE HIS FUCKING MOOR-WALKING GIRLFRIEND WATCH IT ALL AND I’LL

 

 

 

 

My br

 

 

 

*

 

 

A Boring Dotty Update On Boring Dotty

 

Here I am, boring old me on my boring old lonesome in my boring old house doing boring fuck all. Why am I even writing this boring blog? To see how many people I can bore on a daily basis?

 

This is what’s been happening in my boring life.

1.  I didn’t see Venus, I saw clouds.

2.  Little Emily and Kumblant are revolting, they’re plotting against me, I don’t know what they’re up to. When Branwell brought my laudanum he told me they’ve been talking to each other and KUMBLANT HAS BEEN TO THEIR HOUSE FOR TEA. Fucking traitors. Off with their heads. Good job I’ve got Branwell to spy on them.

3.  The gas men ARE laying a fucking great big pipe up the street, the bendy yellow one must have been something else, and the noise they’ve been making digging up THE WHOLE PAVEMENT is driving me MENTAL. I called the boss of the gas men a dickwad the other day. He didn’t like it but so fucking what, I don’t like his NOISE.

4.  When I can concentrate on anything at all I’ve been playing with Photoshop, trying to make a nice picture.

5.  I hate the word CREVICE. If I hear anyone say it I want to punch them in the throat. It’s a vile word spoken slowly on a sea of spittle by smelly, toothless old men in raincoats – CRRREVISSSSS. And they rub their hands together when they say it. And they leer. STEPTOE, YOU DIRTY, DIRTY MAN, DON’T SAY THAT NASTY WORD EVER AGAIN.

6.  I’ve spent a lot of quality time with my brick.

7.  When the NOISE from outside is too much I’ve been taking the opportunity to practice screaming.

8.  My screaming practice sessions have resulted in me being back on good terms with Dibble. They’ve been to see me twice and both times, like the good, law-abiding citizen I am, I’ve pointed out the gas vehicles illegally parked up and down the street, and also pointed out the fact that Dibble had to WALK a long way from where they had to park their car to my house. I also asked after my ex-boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock the Druggy (Piggy-Wig), who somehow scoffed a HUGE pile of my Cumberlaudanum sausage sandwiches the last time I saw him, and they told me he’s still on suspension. Good. No one fucks with Dotty and gets away with it.

 

That’s it. Boring. Well, I did warn you.

 

Dotty Has A Nice Day Despite The Stinky Bog Smell

 

Little Emily walked down to see me straight from her yomp across the moors yesterday morning. She knocked at the back door, I opened it, and there she stood - and stood – and stood - not even a hello. She just stood there looking at me, sad-eyed and droopy-mouthed, holding out a pretty little cloth bag tied at the top with a blue ribbon. I asked her what what was wrong and she looked down, slowly, and so did I and the hems of her skirts were BOGGING with BOG. She handed me the little cloth bag then raised her skirts a bit to show me her little boots but I could hardly SEE her little boots because they were covered in BOG. WET, CLUMPY, STINKY STINKING BOG.

‘Go away! You’re not coming in here like that!’

‘I stepped in a bog.’

‘Fuck off. You stink!’

‘Please, Dotty! If I return with another frock ruined Charlotte will die of apoplexy. Help me!’

‘No!’

‘Please?’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake. Wait there. Don’t move ONE INCH.’

I didn’t want her to stay wet in case she got ill again and died so I ran upstairs and grabbed some clothes and a pair of trainers from my wardrobe, then ran back downstairs. She was still at the back door.

‘Here,’ I said. ‘Go and get changed in the shed and I’ll put your clothes in the washer.’ I gave her the bundle of clothes and the trainers and off she went down the garden.

Five minutes later her shout nearly split my ears open.

‘DOTTEEEEEEEEE!’

I went to the back door. ‘WHAT?’

‘YOU HAVE GIVEN ME BREECHES!’

‘THEY’RE COMBAT PANTS. PUT THEM ON.’

‘NO! I REFUSE!’

‘WELL YOU’LL HAVE TO GO HOME THEN.’

Silence. I went back in to move my collection of Persil Non-Bio Washing Powder Tablets boxes from where they live in front of the washer, then I went to the back door again to shout on her to hurry up, our Cumberland sausages were getting cold. She came out of the shed, ran up the garden as quick as you like, dropped her boggy little boots on the path, and shoved me out of the way to get into the house.

‘Woah, Neddy! Slow down!’

‘Was I seen? Did anyone see me?’

‘No. Give me your clothes and I’ll steep them in the sink. They’re not going in the washer like that. You can handwash them first, when we’ve had our breakfast.’

‘I will do it now. This – attire - is unseemly. Vulgar and unbecoming.’

‘They suit you. They go with your blouse.’ And they did, she looked nice in them.

I sat at the kitchen table and scoffed my Cumberland sausage sandwiches down my neck at double speed because I was ALMOST put off by the disgusting BOG STINK that got worse and worse the more she scrubbed at her skirt hems. I finished in record time.

Watching her wring out the skirts with her little hands made me shudder – if she could squeeze that much water out of a skirt imagine what she could do to a neck. The skirts were cotton but I wasn’t going to chance them on a hot wash in case they shrank or the dye in the top skirt ran into the white underskirts. I’m not stupid, I know how to do a washing. So I bunged them in and turned on the washer while little Emily sat and had her breakfast (2 more sandwiches than her last total), and we were talking (well, she was) about how fashions have become horrendous since her day, when there were four quiet knocks at the back door.

Kumblant. I’d forgotten he was coming.

Little Emily just looked at me (she was doing a lot of looking at me yesterday) and carried on eating her breakfast. She knows I don’t answer the door if I don’t know who it is. I looked at the back door. I couldn’t leave him there, he’d come for his breakfast and if he didn’t have his Cumberland sausages to fill him up, god knows who he might eat.

I ran to the door and opened it before little Emily had chance to run off and hide. She squealed and a spray of chewed-up Cumberland sausage sandwich flew out of her mouth.

‘Hello, Kumblant,’ I said.

‘Hello.’

‘Come in. This is little Emily. LITTLE EMILY! This is Kumblant.’

She might be a lot of things but she isn’t rude or bad mannered, in fact manners are EVERYTHING to her. She wiped the corners of her mouth with her little hanky, took a deep breath to compose herself, and stood up. I could see she was mortified by being caught wearing trousers and I did feel a bit sorry for her because I suppose to her it was like standing naked in front of a stranger. But she wasn’t naked, she was wearing my good combat pants, and she’d plastered on a nice smile for Kumblant so when they’d finished their introductory pleasantries I told them both to sit down while I got Kumblant’s breakfast ready.

Kumblant has lovely manners too. He waited for little Emily to sit before he climbed up onto his own chair. Then he said to me, ‘I clean stink boots before knock. You go out?’

‘No, they’re not mine, they’re little Emily’s.’

She looked at him (look, look, look) and said, ‘You have cleaned my boots?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you, Kumblant, you have my eternal gratitude; I did not relish the thought of the task. Dotty, where is the bag I gave you?’

Eh? Oh yes, the pretty little cloth bag. I got it from on top of the bread bin where I’d put it and gave it to her. She untied the blue ribbon and held the bag out to Kumblant.

‘May I offer you a bonbon?’

‘What is bonbon?’

‘A confection, sweet and delicious. I, myself, made them.’

He took one. He put it in his mouth and closed his eyes and chomped away. When he’d finished he opened his eyes and said,’ Is like Angel smile in Kumblant’s mouth.’

Little Emily’s eyes lit up and she beamed a great big smile at him. ‘Have another,’ she said.

And he did.

When he’d had his breakfast, Kumblant gave me a massive box of workman’s earplugs he had in his road cleaning cart outside, and the next part of his story for me to post. And that was that, we had a very nice morning and when they’d gone I had a nice afternoon reading my book because little Emily’s dress was fine and unshrunk and she went off home in clean clothes and clean boots, and Kumblant went off to work in the knowledge that he wasn’t going to eat anyone because he’d not only had his Cumberland sausage sandwiches, he had a bag of bonbons to keep him going if he got peckish. And little Emily is going to make him some more.

 

I like it when my friends get along with each other. I might have another go at doing a little party one day.

 

Dotty Had A Visitor This Morning

 

Guess who my visitor was? LITTLE EMILY! She’s back, she’s recovered from her illness, she’s writing again, she’s going for her morning walks again, she’s cooking again (she brought me some sort of porridgey slop that looked like wallpaper paste and tasted like mouldy bread). She still looks a bit peaky and thin but I’ll soon fatten her up – she ate four Cumberland sausage sandwiches this morning, not bad but nowhere near the amount she usually scoffs. It won’t take long to train her up again though, I told her to imagine she’s entered a trencherman’s competition and she has to beat a line-up of big fat farmers who can eat for England and probably the rest of the world except when I mention the rest of the world and the countries in it she doesn’t know half the names because they’ve changed since her day, for instance Ceylon is now Sri Lanka, Siam is now Thailand, Persia is now Iran and none of the new names sound half as romantic as the old ones did so she doesn’t like them.

She didn’t have much news to tell me seeing as she’s been laid up, but she did tell me Branwell’s in trouble again with debt collectors – the other day one came to the house, a big ugly arm-snapper who kicked Branwell round the garden and told him he’d better pay up or he’ll come back and kill him. Poor Branwell, I wondered why he hadn’t called in for a natter since his last delivery of laudanum. I told little Emily to tell him he can stay here for a few days if he needs somewhere to hide but she said he’s paid the debt, he stole Papa Brontë’s spare pocket watch (he hasn’t noticed it’s gone yet) and pawned it.

I started to tell her about my day out with Branwell but he’d already told her all about it so I told her about my trip to the hospital with Lottie instead. She said she wishes she’d known about it, she’d have come with me, so next time I have to go she’s going to come too! She wants to see the machines - they have such a great fascination for machines, these Victorians, I wish they’d left well alone and maybe we’d be living in a different, quieter world today – ah, but then I might not be writing my little blog, or be able to cook my Cumberland sausages so nicely, or watch my lovely Ian Somerhalder on telly (Tuesday is the last episode of this series — what am I going to do???) so I suppose there are some good sides.

I told her all about meeting Kumblant. She got a bit stroppy when I said I was allowing him to tell his story on my blog, she stamped her foot and said SHE was promised her own post and why had I let someone else go first? I got round her moodiness by reminding her of how ill she’d been and how long it is since she’s visited, and then I told her some of the hardships Kumblant has had to face and when I’d finished she said she pitied him and he sounds nice and she’s okay about him going first with the posts if it’ll help him slay more monsters.

So that’s it really, we had a little catch-up, we had some breakfast, we’ve made plans for her to come back again tomorrow, and now I’m going to cook some more Cumberland sausages for my tea tonight.

And I’ve just noticed something — there isn’t ONE swear word in this post. I wonder why? There’s something not quite right about a post without a swear word. Should I do one now?

Hmmmm.

No, I won’t. I’ll leave it swearless even though when I hover the mouse over Publish it feels like I’m going out without my skirt on.

 

 

 

Little Emily Is Dying And Dotty Might Have Destroyed The Universe (If I Have – Sorry Everyone)

 

She’s had a relapse, a bad one. Branwell came last night, but they don’t need me to go up there because Charlotte and Anne are home again. I’m so worried about her I’ve done something I probably shouldn’t have done - I gave Branwell my emergency course of antibiotics that I keep for emergencies and I told him to sneak them to her at the correct times. Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have given them to him but I can’t stand the thought of her being so ill when the very medicine that could make her better is sitting in my medicine cupboard doing nothing. 

But the big question I’ve been asking myself since is - might I be fucking about with TIME and FATE and HISTORY? Might the universe POP or IMPLODE or TURN UPSIDE DOWN or FLOAT AWAY or something just as devastating if little Emily doesn’t stay ill and die when she’s supposed to? Who knows – I don’t know and you don’t know either, the only people who profess to know are the UNIVERSE BOFFINS and all they know is how to talk a load of SCIENTIFIC WORDY SHITE about their THEORIES. But really they don’t know any more than we do – they’re just GUESSING in their SCIENTIFIC UNIVERSE BOFFIN ways of guessing and getting paid a fucking great shedload of money to do so.

Why are there no UNIVERSE BOFFINS who specialise in COMMON SENSE? For instance, when they prattle on about the BALLOON THEORY – I’ve never heard one of them ask ‘What’s on the OUTSIDE of the balloon?’ because common sense says the balloon has to expand into SOMETHING. And what colour is the balloon? (I hope it isn’t yellow, I don’t like yellow balloons, they make me feel sick.) And why isn’t the balloon DEFLATING like old balloons do if they’ve hidden themselves behind the sofa for a week?

And WHO BLEW THE BALLOON UP IN THE FIRST PLACE?

And did who ever blew it up use one of those BALLOON BLOWING PUMPS or did they blow it up with their lips and their breath?

And WHY did they blow it up?

A birthday? A wedding?

And is there any writing on the balloon?

9 TODAY?

HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY?

CONGRATULATIONS (with a little picture of two horseshoes).

It’s all too complicated for my little addled brain to think about. But I’ve affected SOMETHING because WEIRD UNIVERSE TRICKS have already started –

TWO OF MY PENS RAN OUT OF INK THIS MORNING

What are the odds of that happening, eh?

TWO pens, the two pens I use – but I didn’t start using them at the same time, one was older than the other. I’ve left them both sitting on my kitchen worktop so I can try them again later to see if the INK HAS COME BACK because if it DOES come back it means TIME HAS REVERSED ITSELF and I’ll have to prepare myself for my front door de-bricking itself.

 

I’m going to have some Cumberland sausage sandwiches (my last?) and then a big swig of laudanum (my last?) and wait for Branwell to come and tell me how little Emily is doing. IF he comes.

Goodbye, my bloggy friends. It’s been nice knowing you.

 

Dotty Update On Pengate And Some Bad, Bad News

 

I’ve resolved the pen problem to the mutual satisfaction of both parties and I get to keep the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen. 

What happened is I had a bright idea so I sent Papa Brontë a BALLPOINT pen, to be precise it was a Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen (black) but three hours later Branwell came back and I had to give him ANOTHER Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen because his father’s first instinct when he realised the Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen didn’t have to be dipped in his inkwell was to throw it on the fire and scream

‘WHAT IS THIS DEVILRY ? WHY DO YOU BRING TO MY GOD-FEARING HOUSE THIS VILE, UNHOLY STICK FILLED WITH THE PUTRID, BLACK SALIVA OF SATAN? BEGONE, CHANGELING, YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE – EVILDOER, DEFILER, OFFENDER OF CHRIST. BEGONE, I SAY!’

Little Emily managed to calm him down while Branwell went outside for a smoke and a sip of laudanum. She showed him her own Bic pens (I gave her two packs of three) and convinced him that if he allowed Branwell to get another Papermate Flexigrip ultra pen from me it could be made holy with a full exorcism before use. Now he likes it so much he’s sent me a note requesting more, in different colours.

 

 

So that’s all sorted, but what isn’t sorted is the fact that MY TELLY IS FUCKED. It won’t switch on. It’s a FUCKED BOX OF SHITE and I don’t know why. Last night it was working fine, no problems, then when I switched it on this morning (I don’t watch it, I just like having the little telly people in the room with me), NOTHING not a flicker, not a bleep, not a fizzle. I’ve wiggled the wires, I’ve smacked the fucker hard, I’ve given it a shake, NOTHING.

IT’S FUCKED.

I’ve got another telly, a little one, in the spare room where Scotty sleeps when he stays BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO WIRE IT UP TO MY TELLY-BOX and if I try to do it by myself I’ll fuck that up as well.  

I need Lottie. I’m going to ring her now.

 

Pen Thievery – Dotty Didn’t Do It

 

Have you ever seen a pen so beautiful you just have to have it? I have a penchant for pens. Before I caught Hermititis and People Phobia what would happen is I’d spot a pen and fall in love with it and from the moment I set eyes on it I would be filled with NEED. I really and truly NEEDED those pens, each and every one of them, and if I didn’t get them, if I didn’t HAVE and POSSESS them, I would have DIED. But there were loads of tricky times when the pens I NEEDED belonged to someone else. Actually, every pen I NEEDED was in the possession of someone else and strangely I never NEEDED the pens I saw in the shops, those I could pay for and just OWN, they didn’t interest me.

My collection of pens is huge and vast and if you stood at the coast and lined up all my pens from top to nib they’d be longer than the longest peninsula. I’m not so keen on pencils, they don’t have the same penetratingly gorgeous LURE of pens and the lead always snaps when you press too hard and I can never find a pencil sharpener when I need one. And those fancy, posh pencils you click like a pen and the thin bit of lead comes down – they’re nothing but SHITE, I don’t like them, they’re the stupidest, most wasteful pencils in the world, click too many times and SNAP, don’t click enough times and WHERE THE FUCK IS IT, click some more to make it appear and SNAP — SNAP SNAP SNAP — they should be banned, I bet they cause more distress than any other writing implement except maybe crayons.

I also love bookmarks and other pocketable items of stationery, but pens will always be my favourite. PENS, PENS, PENS, PENS, PENS - blue pens, black pens, red pens, glittery pens, fountain pens, dip pens, ballpoint pens, quill pens, reed pens, rollerball pens, felt-tip pens, marker pens – I love pens.

I LOVE PENS.

I FUCKING LOVE THEM LIKE THEY ARE MY BABIES.

And I think I’m in trouble again because of my love for pens.  I’ve been falsely accused of STEALING A PEN, one of Papa Brontë’s pens, a beautiful, pure white swan feather pen that was just LYING THERE ON THE MANTLEPIECE, all alone and neglected and there was a speck of SOOT on it that I carefully blew off so it wouldn’t MARK and MAR the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen, and I MOVED the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen away from the sooty, dirty mantlepiece to another place that wasn’t sooty or dirty and that place just happened to be MY SUITCASE and now Branwell has been here accusing me of THIEVING the beautiful, pure white swan feather pen and because of his fucking CHEEK I’m not giving it back.

So fuck off, Branwell, you pox-ridden WHELP.

You can stick your accusations up your pure white swan-feathered ARSE.

 

 

Dotty Needs A Bit Of Help Please

 

There’s something strange afoot in Dottyworld. Mischief is being made somewhere, somehow and I need to get it sorted before something unfixable happens. As you should know by now I don’t have any mirrors in my house, nor do I have any shiny surfaces. It’s hard to catch a glimpse of myself ANYWHERE and that’s how I like it, if I wanted mirrors I wouldn’t have smashed them all. But this afternoon, when the sun shone bright through the window and hit the lid of my frying pan, I DID catch a glimpse of myself (more than a glimpse – about 7 seconds worth of glimpse before I jumped back, which doesn’t sound long but you try looking at something for 7 seconds and it’s longer than you think it should be).

I say I caught a glimpse of myself – well that’s not quite true because although I SHOULD have caught a glimpse of myself I didn’t, I caught a long 7 second glimpse of LITTLE EMILY. Except little Emily went home early this morning to make sure Charlotte isn’t taking the piss out of Anne again by getting her to do all the cleaning. And she hasn’t been back since, and she isn’t due back till tomorrow.

So how did I see her in the frying pan lid?

Little Emily is dead – I’ve seen her grave many times over the years, I know she’s in there but obviously SHE isn’t in there, and anyway it’s not a secret that I SEE DEAD PEOPLE, lots of people see dead people, they even make telly programmes about people who see dead people so it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But seeing dead people when it should be ME I’m seeing is a bit eerie.

At first I thought maybe it’s because we’ve become such good friends and I see her face much more than I see my own and the facial recognition part of my brain has forgotten what MY face looks like so it slapped little Emily’s face onto the frying pan lid instead.

Then I thought I wonder if it’s me, I wonder if I’ve finally lost it, but then I thought ‘No, Dotty, don’t be daft, you’re mental but you’re not fucking MENTAL‘.

Then I thought it must be something to do with little Emily’s ectoplasm, maybe it’s fucked up because she’s doing something she shouldn’t be doing like eating too many of my Cumberland sausages, or trying to follow Rah Rah Rasputin on Just Dance 2 (or 3? I can’t remember, she puts it on herself, I don’t like it), or killing wabbits for her wabbit pies, or looking after Branwell when he’s in a fugue, or arguing with Charlotte, or too much writing writing writing, or any number of things she does that I don’t even know about, who knows what she gets up to on that fucking moor every morning, there are more dead people roaming around up there than soft Mick, she could be doing anyTHING with anyONE of them.

All or none of these things could be the cause of what happened earlier and that’s what I need help with - knowledge of ghosts. If any of you know anything at all about ghosts will you tell me please so I can try and work out what’s wrong with little Emily and why she appeared on my face? I don’t want to lose her, she’s the best friend I’ve ever had.

Thank you.

 

Dotty Hid In The Tumble Dryer Until After Midday

 

I had to. I don’t like April Fool’s Day, I’m scared of it and Little Emily can be a sod for practical jokes. It was okay being in the tumble dryer at first, it felt safe and warm because I’d just dried my towels but while I was having the panic attacks it got a bit uncomfortable and my elbows and knees hurt like fuck now, I think I can see the bruises starting to come out.

It’s all YOUR fault I had the panic attacks. And little Emily’s. Last night I was happy because of the 626 views you’ve done on my little blog. Little Emily was happy too, we had a feast of Cumberland sausages which she cooked so I didn’t have to do anything except sit back and eat. And I ate and ate and ate, not until I was SICK like Bonnie Langford who SCREAMED and SCREAMED and SCREAMED until she was sick, just until I FELT sick.

So there I was, sitting on my sofa at one o’clock in the morning, feeling sick, unable to move because my belly was like a big stone, when little Emily said, ‘Dotty, my dear friend, what if this is all a trick?

‘Eh? What?’

‘Your blog guests. They may be playing tricks on you.

‘What’re you on about?’

‘The statistics on your blog. What if they are an illusion, a despicable antic executed to make you THINK you have 626 views when really you do not?’

‘Shut up, idiot. I’ll show you it, it’s still on my stats page.’

‘Yes it is. But what if a secret group of infiltrating bloggers caused it to happen? Strange ne’er-do-wells lurk in Blogland too, my friend.’

‘And why the fuck would they do that? And WHO the fuck would do that? All the people on my blog are nice and kind and I love them.’

‘What about Judith?

‘JUDITH?’

‘She doesn’t like me. She has it in for me.’

‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. If you think Judith would do something like that you’ve LOST IT. Stop being stupid, divvy bitch.’

‘If not Judith, then who?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody.’

‘Someone did it.’

‘Okay then, tell me how.’

‘I have been thinking about it. It is highly possible that they might have paid Wordpress to perform an adjustment.

‘It’d have to be A LOT OF FUCKING MONEY for WordPress to do something like that.’

‘Not if WordPress are almost bankrupt. I heard rumours that bailiffs had been seen clearing out blogs. They were seen stacking furniture onto a cart.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Would I lie to you, my dear friend? Would I lie to you on this day of all days, the day that follows your 626 views that came about on the last day of March?

‘No, no you wouldn’t. I’m sorry.’

‘Go to bed, dear friend. It’s already tomorrow.

‘Right, yes, I will.’

 

And I did but I couldn’t sleep for worrying – so which of you was it?

WHO FIDDLED MY FUCKING FIGURES?

I can feel another panic attack coming on and my knees and elbows hurt.

I knew it was too good to be true.

626 fucking views my arse.

Well at least little Emily didn’t get a chance to play her April Fool’s Day tricks. She can’t get me now, it’s too late.

I hid in the tumble dryer. It was a bit of a squeeze.

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 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.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Dotty’s Shitey Family – An Update

 

I got up this morning. I went for a wee, had a wash, got dressed, went downstairs for a fag and a cup of coffee which tasted very nice indeed, thank you for asking. I’m telling you what I did this morning because since JUDAS left I haven’t done it, not all of it, only the wee, the fag and the cup of coffee that I took back upstairs to bed with me.

My bedroom is a shithole. It’s a mess. I don’t know why because all I usually do is sleep there but it’s become something of a dumping ground for collections I’ve grown bored with, for books I haven’t read yet, for books I have read but haven’t found a place for yet, for clothes I haven’t put away yet (CLEAN CLOTHES – I’M NOT A DIRTY MINGER, I KNOW WHAT A LAUNDRY BASKET IS FOR – see Losing My Biscuit) and for bits and bobs and things I keep but don’t know why I’ve kept them. But like I said, all I usually do is sleep there so I didn’t notice how bad it had got because I never LOOKED at it until I started to spend my days in bed. Well to be honest with you it was little Emily who MADE me start noticing it, she wouldn’t shut up about it until I brought my head up from under the covers and listened to her- “Dotty, my dearest friend, you must LOOKThis room resembles Branwell’s room when he’s had a little too much laudanum and thinks his enemies from Glass Town have come to disembowel him. SEE IT, my friend. KNOW IT. And decide WHAT TO DO ABOUT IT.” We had a little argument and I shouted at her from under the covers IF IT BOTHERS YOU THAT MUCH GO AND TELL QUEEN VICTORIA AND GET ME BEHEADED, YOU MOANING BITCH but she said she couldn’t hear me properly and I didn’t have the energy to repeat myself or to listen to her yakking on and on and on so I looked and I saw and as the days passed I looked and saw more and more of the mess, and I DO know what I have to do about it but I’m not doing it today, I’m waiting for Granny Euphemia to come again and she’ll help me to clean it.

Little Emily is getting on my nerves lately, sweet as she is. She’d look pretty enough with a bit of eyeliner and mascara to bring out her eyes but I don’t think make-up would stop her looking so fucking DEPRESSED all the time, like someone stole her pens or maimed her bible. I think it’s those sisters of hers, they keep telling her Heathcliff will never be famous if she doesn’t give him a flowery cravat and a blue velvet jacket but she doesn’t want to give him those things and I told her bollocks to Charlotte, bollocks to Anne, tell them to go and fuck themselves, Heathcliff is YOUR character, you can dress him how you want. During my days in bed she’d come and sit on the long bookcase and talk to me while I was writing my new book and film review pages for my little blog and you should have HEARD the things she told me about what one of the sisters got up to with the – no, I can’t tell you, juicy gossip isn’t part of this blog. But even when she was gossiping and slagging off her sisters she still looked as miserable as fuck - I put up with it for days until yesterday morning when I (politely) asked if she could go somewhere else because her face was upsetting me. She went and she hasn’t been back since. I hope she wasn’t offended, but I’d had enough of looking at all that GLOOM.

So back to this morning. After I’d had my fifth cup of coffee I made a batch of Cumberland sausages and they tasted like HEAVEN, thank you for asking, and I don’t ever want to go so long without eating them again. They perked me up so much I thought I should open the curtains to let a bit of sunlight in so I went into the living room and opened the living room curtains, I ran upstairs and opened my bedroom curtains, I went into the spare room that JUDAS slept in and opened the spare room that JUDAS slept in curtains, but I didn’t open the little spare room curtains because it’s not a spare room any more it’s an airing cupboard (see Adventures In The Airing Cupboard). I opened the blind in the bathroom and then I went back downstairs into the kitchen and opened the blind in the kitchen — AND THE OUTSIDE HAD DISAPPEARED. Gone. Vanished. No garden, no catshit, no sky, no clouds, no nothing of the outside at all. I screamed and jumped back and banged my arse on the washing mangle (it fucking well hurt, I bet the bruise is going to be the size of a GOLFBALL) and I thought that’s it, Dotty, you’ve lost it completely, no road back from INSANITYLAND now and I had a SUPER-MEGA PANIC ATTACK and all sorts of things were going through my head about COLLIDING UNIVERSES and BIG BLACK HOLES SWALLOWING UP OUR PLANET and KEANU REEVES HAD CHANGED HIS MIND ABOUT DESTROYING US and GODDYJESUS HAD SMITED US BEFORE KEANU REEVES COULD DO IT and then I noticed the writing on the black blackness where the outside had been, four underlined words – dotty open the door – and I knew then that the outside HADN’T disappeared, it was behind the BIG BLACK PAPER THAT MY FUCKING KNOB-ROT OF AN EX-BROTHER JUDAS HAD STUCK ON MY WINDOW.

And I surprised myself then. I laughed. I kept laughing. I laughed and I laughed so much I had to sit down but I sat on my banged arse and it HURT so much it stopped me laughing. I waited for a few seconds but I didn’t feel any tears coming like they always do after laughter, and I realised a weird thing, that the laugh had lifted my spirits (fuck, I’m talking like little Emily, she’s becoming a bad influence) and given me a feeling I thought I remembered but not a whole feeling, it was more the memory of a  long-forgotten feeling, something I knew once upon a time, and all of a sudden it struck me that I was remembering HAPPINESS, pure happiness, pure glee-inspired, carefree, impish CHILDHOOD HAPPINESS and that brought back a whole stream of memories of the summer I was 13 going on 14 when Scotty found a hidden stash of PORNOGRAPHY MAGAZINES in the field next to the woods and every night for weeks afterwards we’d sneak out of the house when it got dark and we’d sellotape a pornographic picture of a lady with HUGE KNOCKERS and LEGS AKIMBO to a neighbour’s window so that when they opened the curtains the next morning they’d get a good eyeful. We did the whole village including our own house so we wouldn’t stand out as the culprits but meine Mami suspected us because she never saw the pornographic picture we stuck on our window, she didn’t even know it had been there.  And it turned out she didn’t see it because dear dead Daddy had opened the curtains that morning and KEPT THE PICTURE and we know this because after dear dead Daddy died and we were going through his things we found the now tatty pornographic picture folded up in one of his scientific journals and we realised he must have KNOWN IT WAS US doing the pornographic pictures on windows and HIDDEN the pornographic picture we stuck on our window in case our fingerprints were on it.

Bless my dear dead Daddy for loving us so much but we got caught anyway. Meine Mami sussed it when she needed to use the sellotape and there was only a little bit left on the roll. But get this – I didn’t get in trouble. Scotty took all the blame, he said I had nothing to do with it. He got battered round the house and was sent to bed every night for a week without any supper (the soft punishment of being grounded wasn’t invented in Britain in those days – we only had a few American programmes on telly, I loved Champion the Wonder Horse - so our punishments were the tried and tested good old violence and starvation which they should BRING BACK to stop the brats of today from being such brats. A swift belt round the head never did me any harm).

But Scotty – he took all the blame. He always stuck up for me at school – he threw one bully-boy in the school dinner slop bin when he called me names. And even though I knew full well that this morning he was trying to manipulate me with the black paper on my kitchen window, I also knew that his trick had worked, I didn’t want to continue with this bad feeling between us, I wanted to sort it all out and have my brother back.

So I rang him. He’s coming round soon.

I’ll let you know what happens.

 

A Short Note About A Note From JUDAS

 

I couldn’t avoid it any longer. The note I’ve been hiding in my pocket is from JUDAS and his SISTER. It’s in an envelope but it wasn’t properly posted, (couldn’t they spare the price of a stamp?) It was handed to me two days ago by my Shopping Person who was waylaid on their way up my garden path.

This is what it says –

 

Dotty,
Answer the door please. We only want to talk to you. We will not put you away like you think we want to. Lottie is going out of her mind with worry and so am I. stop being stubbern and answer the door next time we come. My face is healling up but my finger is still bad. I am off work with it so I will be here for a few weeks at Lotties. I will keep coming every day till you answer the door. Open you’re curtains. I know you are in there.
Scotty + Lottie

 

Okay, this solves something that’s been bothering me – the misspellings that kept happening in my posts when Judas was staying here. It must have been HIM doing it, his MISSPELLING INFLUENCES must have possessed me while he was in the house. He’s never been very good at spelling but he could have turned his poor ability to his advantage and learned to do a DISCOMFITING MIND TRICK at THE HUMANITARIAN ACADEMY OF MASTER MERCENARIES AND CRACK ASSASSINS as part of his Targeted Killing training while he was on his apprenticeship, (there you go, Interpol, some juicy info for you). I wouldn’t put it past him.

I’m just going to ignore the twat (and his sister), the same as I’ve been doing every day when he knocks on the window and the back door. And I am SO GLAD I haven’t got a front door any more or he’d be banging on that too.

I’m going to talk to little Emily now, she’s stuck on part of her book, she doesn’t know if Cathy should be blonde, brunette or ginger. I think ginger, it would suit her temper.

 

 

Dotty On Reality (WITH TWO PICTURES)

 

I'm off to get a chunk of moon cheese for my dinner.

If this post is going to make any sense you’ll have to read my last post, Dotty Headbanger, Star of the Dark Satanic Screen and then it will make complete and utter sense. If you don’t read my last post you won’t know what I’m whittering on about here so go and read it NOW and then come back and by then I’ll have finished writing THIS post.

Go on then, off you toddle. And don’t forget, you can’t lie to me and tell me you’ve read it when you haven’t because I CAN SEE YOU ON MY STATS.

 

Right then, you’re back. Good. I’ll start by telling you that I HAVE BEEN TO SLEEP. And it was my last post that SENT ME TO SLEEP (I hope it hasn’t done the same for you – that would be a BAD THING TO HAPPEN and I’d have to cut my fingers off so they won’t ever BORE you again). Anyway, when I was writing my last post  (at 12.30am this morning) I couldn’t work out which parts of it were real and which weren’t and my brain got all boggled and exhausted and I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I fell asleep. But when I woke up this morning everything was crystal clear – my brain must have sorted it all out when I was asleep and I’m not confused about it any more, I know what’s real and what isn’t and so should YOU.

 

So here’s what my brain did in the night to sort out REALITY for me —

 

I am real but I’m not real because the me you THINK I AM isn’t the ME I AM (this is true of EVERYONE, isn’t it?)

Little Emily WAS real but now she isn’t. BUT SHE IS.

Heathcliff was NEVER real, only in little Emily’s head and then in the heads of her READERS which makes Heathcliff real INSIDE HEADS which makes little Emily real because how could Heathcliff be real inside heads if little Emily didn’t put him there?

Nurse Ratchett IS real. I know because I saw her yesterday when she was mean and cruel to Jack Nicholson who isn’t real because the age he was yesterday when I saw him isn’t the age he is NOW, so the Jack Nicholson I saw yesterday is an unreal long gone GHOST.

The dead ewe IS real because the carrion crow was eating it.

The carrion crow is NOT real because where is it? It’s nowhere to be seen.

The Cartesian Evil Demon IS real because if she wasn’t real it would mean that I wouldn’t be here and I AM HERE because YOU ARE READING ME.

I am NOT real. That isn’t really ME cycling to the moon in the picture — I don’t LIKE moon cheese so I would never eat it, I only like DOUBLE GLOUCESTER cheese. And anyway, you know it isn’t really me because how could it be – I CAN’T GO OUT.

The words I am writing are NOT real because when you leave this page WHERE ARE THEY?

YOU are not real because even if you’re size zero you STILL wouldn’t be thin enough to fit inside my laptop.

 

So now we know what’s real and what isn’t, I want to show you this picture of the REAL ME before I finish–

I DON'T LIKE MOON CHEESE, I ONLY LIKE DOUBLE GLOUCESTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

P.S. Do you know how long it took me to do these pictures? A FUCKING LONG TIME, that’s how long. And if they come out wonky when I press Publish I don’t care, they’ll have to stay wonky.

 

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 572 other followers

%d bloggers like this: