Where Did Lottie Find The Fucker? Under A Bleeding Heart?

 

knock knock

knock knock

 

‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘that’s a BERSERKER knock,’ so I went to the door to play the game I like playing with them.

 

knock knock

WHO’S THERE?‘ (it was me who said that).

but instead of hearing a little voice squeaking, ‘Pothtman Pat!’ I heard a little voice squeak ‘timothy.’

‘FUCK OFF! GO AWAY!’

 

But he wouldn’t go away, he kept knocking his weak little girly knock on my back door –

knock knock …….

knock knock …….

which hurt my ears the more he did it because even though I recognised it as a quiet little knock knock which wouldn’t be loud to others (hyperacusis brain retraining!! and tinnitus brain retraining! It’s amazing what they can do nowadays) to me it still sounded louder than the KNOCK OF THOR -

KNOCK KNOCK

KNOCK KNOCK

so when I reached the point where I couldn’t stand it any more I opened the door and shouted, ‘WHAT?’

‘Hello.’

‘FUCK OFF. WHAT DO YOU WANT?

‘I’ve brought some leaflets to show you.’

‘Eh?’

‘Can I come in? I’d like to show you what they’re all about. They’re very interesting,’ he said, and I was so stunned and confused and boggly-brained that when he stepped forward I automatically stepped back without thinking - and in he came.

‘Wipe your sandals,’ I mumbled.

He went straight over to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair as he said, ‘May I?’ and even though I didn’t say yay or nay or how’s your father, he sat down.

Then he said, ‘Come and sit with me.’

NO.’ Like fuck I was going to sit next to him – though I don’t know why I bothered standing as close to the open back door as I did, if he’d started attacking me I couldn’t have RUN OUTSIDE, could I?

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘A green tea, please.’

Cheeky bastard.

‘What do you WANT?‘ I repeated.

‘Well now. I came to show you these,’ and he started flapping the leaflets at me.

‘Leave them there.’ I pointed at the table. ‘You can go now.’

‘No.’

That was it –

PANIC ATTACK, PANIC ATTACK, PANIC ATTACK, GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OFF ME, GET OFF ME and whatever else I screamed at him, because he came over and TOUCHED MY SHOULDERS and pulled me forward so I was bent in two and he kept saying ‘ Breathe, breathe, breathe, slow, slow,’ and as the PANIC ATTACK started to ease he said ‘You’re fine, you’re fine, it was only a panic attack,’  – and it might ONLY have been a panic attack to him but I think I changed his mind on the ‘only’ when I spewed up all over his nasty sandalled feet – ‘oo! oo! My feet! oo! oo!’ he said, and he shuffled himself out of the door and into the garden and the second he was through the door I slammed it shut and locked it and bolted it and clipped all the padlocks into place, then I ran to the window to see if he’d gone but he hadn’t, he was in my back garden standing on one nasty sandalled foot WITH THE OTHER NASTY SANDALLED FOOT RAISED AND ABOUT TO GO INTO MY FISH POND THAT ISN’T A POND IT’S HALF A WHISKEY BARREL.

‘MY FUCKING FISHES!!!!’ I screamed and I BANG-BANG-BANGED on the window but he ignored me so I ran upstairs to the spare bedroom and opened the window and he was STILL KILLING MY FISHES so I looked round for something to throw at him but I couldn’t see anything throwable, my collections in that room are PRECIOUS, but my sniper rifle was propped up against my elephant’s foot umbrella stand and I knew it was loaded because what’s the point of having a sniper rifle if it isn’t ready to use when you need it?

So I shot him. But I didn’t shoot him in the head, I shot him in the arse-cheek because the way he was balanced, one nasty sandalled foot on the ground, the other KILLING MY FISHES, his arse presented the best target. He fell over, backwards, into my creamy-flowered Potentilla. No scream, they only sound that came out of him was a weird little ‘ooooo.’ But who says ‘ooooo’ when they’ve been shot in the arse? I’ve never known anyone to say ‘ooooo’ when they’ve been shot in the arse, they usually scream blue murder  – I had one bloke (a cold-caller – energy suppliers) who wouldn’t stop screaming, ‘MURDER-MURDER-MURDER-MURDER,’ till the ambulance came and took him away.

I rang the Big Chief Inspector and told him to add timothy to my tally and to tell his 999 operators to ignore any calls from or regarding him – I didn’t want the nuisance of the Armed Dibble Unit and the megaphones again (the brain retraining hasn’t covered police megaphones yet), and nosey neighbours who want to know why they’ve been evacuated off the street. The Big Chief Inspector asked if I was okay and I said, ‘I am now,’ and he said, ‘That’s all right then. Don’t worry yourself any further, Dotty dear, I’ll sort it all out at this end. Go and have a lie down.’

So I did have a lie down. And I had a little sleep. And when I woke up and looked out of the spare bedroom window, timothy was gone and I could see down into the whiskey barrel where my two fishes were swimming around like nothing happened, and when I looked at them through my binoculars they seemed as happy as fishes can be. Bless their little golden fins.

 

 

Lottie Is Going Dotty And Dotty Is Having A Bouncy Week

 

So this last week or so has been UP UP UP UP UP which is why I haven’t been around much and why I haven’t read many of your blogs and why I had FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT unopened emails in my inbox this morning, and that’s not counting the post notifications I’ve already opened even though I didn’t visit the blogs to read the rest of the posts, but fuckitty-doo, I’ll get round to sorting them out at some point and I’ll get round to reading your blogs at some point too, probably a month late on the posts by the time I do read them.

Anyway, back to what  I  was saying – I haven’t had a bouncy week for AGES and this week’s been very bouncy, I’ve been online shopping, I’ve been outside shopping, I’ve been making wishlists for when I next go shopping, and I’ve had some parties and I made a new blog, and Branwell asked me to marry him, and THE BERSERKERS did nine little dances for me and the youngest BERSERKER broke her wrist when I got her to do the splits on top of my clothes-horse but I drew a picture of Winnie-the-Shite on her cast so she’s happy as diddly-dum and she can still dance.

Remember how Lottie divorced Fat-Fuck when she found out he was shagging some bewer from work? Well get this – Lottie’s got a new a boyfriend. He’s called timothy. Says it all, doesn’t it? I know people can’t help their names but if I was called timothy I’d shorten it and replace the ‘i’ with an ‘o’ or better still I’d give myself a nickname like MAN or BAD BASTARD or FUCKING NUTTER WHO’LL KNOCK TEN BELLS OUT OF YOU IF YOU EVER CALL ME A WUSS AGAIN.

Lottie calls him timmy and just writing it has nearly made me heave up the Cumberland sausage sandwiches I had for my dinner. When she brought him round I couldn’t help myself, I blurted out, ‘OH MY FUCKING GRANNY’S GUMS, what the fuck are you doing with a plonker like him?’

And she said, ‘Do you know what you are, Dotty? A nasty bitch.’

And I said, ‘Yep, that’s true. And you’ll do well to remember it because if you bring that streak of piss to my house again I’ll BATTER HIM. And I’ll batter YOU for having him as a boyfriend.’

I made him stand outside the back door while we had our APPLE PARTY (I got THE BERSERKERS to pick all my apples before they rot off) because he looks like Nicholas Lyndhurst as Uriah Heep except he was wearing sandals and combat shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘FREE EVERYONE’ and he scares the bejesus out of me. 

*

Lottie’s new boyfriend,      timothy the creepy fucker.

*

Guess what he does for a job? Go on, guess.

NO, you’re WRONG, he’s not an accountant, he’s a fucking SOCIAL WORKER. To be sociable I asked him ‘So how many kids have you snatched away from their families, then?’ and do you know what the fucker did? He SMILED at me, one of those smirky, patronising LIBERAL smiles that make you want to SAW THE FACE OFF the bastard but because THE BERSERKERS were there I didn’t saw his face off, I just gobbed in his cup of tea (TEA!! when there’s ABSINTHE to drink!!!) and squirted a bit of Mr Muscle Drain Cleaning Foam into the fresh cream in his elephant foot bun.

‘You can’t be serious about him,’ I said to Lottie when he’d skipped off down the garden to help THE BERSERKERS carry the apple basket.

‘Why? Stop being so horrible to him,’ she said.

‘I can’t help it.’

‘He’s done nothing wrong.’

‘Yes he has. He’s got a name that doesn’t deserve a capital letter. And he’s scary. And he’s a social worker. And if you end up marrying him and having his babies he’ll want to give them names like Inigo and Milo and Nimrod and Rupert and Cosmo and Arlo and Jago and Barnaby and if it’s a girl he’ll want to call it Jocasta or Florence or Clarissa or Clementine or Philippa or Cressida or Octavia or… ‘

‘SHUT UP.’

‘Oooooooooooooooo. We’re a bit touchy today, aren’t we? Wedding jitters?’

And she starts yapping on about how she hasn’t been seeing him for long so I shouldn’t even MENTION marriage or I’ll scare him off and she really, really likes him and the girls really, really like him and he’s the best thing that’s happened to her for YEARS, in fact the best thing that’s EVER happened to her, and she thinks she doesn’t just LIKE him, she thinks she LOVES him and she never thought she’d find love again, and if I do anything to spoil it she won’t speak to me for the rest of her life (tempting, that one).

So I promised I’ll be nice to him. And I tried (honest), but when Lottie went upstairs to the loo and I was standing at the back door with my ciggie and I asked him if I could be a bridesmaid because Lottie’s booked the church for next week, he SMILED at me again and he said, ‘Can I just say something, Dotty? Quite a few of my clients have mental health differences. I understand what you’re going through. You’re so brave.’ 

?

?

?

Brave?

Understand?

‘UNDERSTAND AND BRAVE THIS, YOU MIDDLE CLASS TOFU-SUCKING ECO-ARSED TWAT,’ and I kicked him in the goolies and hissy-whispered, ‘Now FUCK OFF and don’t come back,’ and he did, he looked up at me from his kicked-in-the-goolies bent double on the ground position like I was the most pitiful thing he’d ever seen, then he got himself up off the ground and he fucked off, not very quickly, he was hobbling and holding his groin. No dignity.

And when Lottie came downstairs and saw he wasn’t there she also looked at me, and she looked at me, and she looked at me, and she looked at me, and then, without saying a word, she went into the garden, got THE BERSERKERS, and they all fucked off too – WITHOUT BRINGING THE REST OF THE APPLES IN so now half my apples are rotting on the tree and I don’t have enough to make all the apple sauce and apple pies I usually make.

I’ll have to go now, I want to write a letter of complaint to Social Services about granola-tim to tell them how he called me a FUCKING PSYCHO and a MENTAL BASTARD and a LOONY and a WINDOW LICKER and SPECIAL. Not that it would bother me if he had, but it’ll bother THEM - when they get my letter they’ll all fall down in a weeping heap, wringing their hands and crying ‘How could he? How could he?’ and he’ll be sacked from his job and all he’ll have to live on are the ten bags of muesli he received as last month’s salary.

Don’t mess with Dotty, timothy. You’ll never win.

 

Manglebrain Rex, Criminatore Terribilium (The Demon In Dotty’s Attic)

 

I have his name. He gave it to me. He wrote it in the dust on the fourth bookcase in the line of bookcases that run across the back wall of my living room.

Wait a minute, I’ll tell you what happened from the beginning or I’ll get muddled up.

The other night I left him a note on the table in the hallway. Next to the note I placed my ammo which consisted of NONE of the ammo I ordered from online 24 hr Tesco - they wouldn’t accept the order because I didn’t have any money in my bank to pay for it. Stingy fuckers, they could have let me owe it to them, it’s not as if £27.94 would BANKRUPT them, is it? Anyway, this is all the ammo I had –

the picture of Good Linda & the Lamb that poet gave me

the Frankincense and Myrrh Mel told me to use

and the salt Benjamin told me to use

(GO AND SEE THEIR BLOGS)

and over these pieces of ammo I exuded the last remaining bit of GOODNESS I had in me.

 

 

This is the note I left. I wrote it with a purple pen because I couldn’t find a blue one. Or a black one. I don’t know where they’ve gone –

 

Dear DEMON,

I’ll keep this short and to the point –

FUCK OFF.

Love Dotty xxx

 

 

And then I went to bed.

 

 

When I got up yesterday morning I knew something was different. I could feel it. And I could SEE it because there was writing all over my walls and in the dust that coats everything and is NEVER disturbed. It took me ALL DAY to piece together what he had written into some sort of coherent thing and I’m still jiggling the sentences. But this is what I have so far –

 

GOOD LADY OF MEATLESS DEATH SAUSAGE, WORTCUNNING QUEEN OF SOIL AND SEED. I DIE. I DIE. 

NYAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

OLD IS MANGLEBRAIN, OLDER THAN EARTH, OLDER THAN LIGHT, OLDER THAN DARK, OLDER THAN ALL BUT THE EVER-LOVED AND THE EVER-DREADED.

FLESH OF MOON AM I, BONE OF STARS. FOUL FIEND OF ASTAROTH, PRINCE OF SLOTH, CRIMINATORE OF THE CRIMINATOR, I AM THIS, THAT AND THE OTHER.

MANGLEBRAIN FLY THROUGH A FAR BLACK HOLE, DOOR FROM HELL. BANK THE FIRES, I FLY, DIABLO DIABLUS, MANGLEBRAIN REX, FLAGELLUM DAEMONUM, CLUB ME, LASH ME, BLEED ME.

DJINNEE AM I, BLACK BEING OF THE BLACK FIEND, EVER-DREADED, EVER-YEARNED. WISHES TO GIVE, WISHES TO GRANT, ONE WISH, TWO WISH, THREE.

COME, AID ME. PULL MANGLEBRAIN OUT FROM THE SIDEBOARD INTO THE WORLD, INTO THINE VAPOURS OF VIRTUE AND GOOD. IT CALCIFY MY HEART TO LIVE BY THE KISS-KILL, RED DEAD, THRUST-FORCE OF MY SHARP CLAW, RIP RIP RIP, AH THE LOOK IN THE EYES, CORPSE, CRUMPLE OF FLESH AND BONE, ALL GRACE, ALL DIGNITY GONE, THINE SOULS A BLISTERED SADNESS ON MY PLATE, TASTE LIKE LOVE OR CHICKEN, BWOK, BWOK, BWOK, BWOK, BWOK.

GOOD GOOD GOOD. PAIN TO MANGLEBRAIN. NYAAAAAAAAAAA! INFESTATION. BLIGHT OF GOOD INFECTUS ME, I CANNOT SEE, BLIND AM I, ONE EYE GONE, WORMS OF WOOD EAT MY BLACK PUPIL.

BLACK HELL, NO MORE MY HOME. SCRAT, SCRAT, SCRAT. GIFT TO YOU OF SIGIL AND NAME, MANGLEBRAIN REX.

MANGLEBRAIN YIELDS TO MALEFICIA VICTORIOUS.

COME, COME. RELEASE ME.

 

 

He’s written other words and sentences (on my fucking kitchen units, the vandal) but they don’t make any sense. So what do you think I should do, let him out or leave him there? I think he’s trying to trick me.

 

 

Trying To Trap The Demon In Dotty’s Attic (It Isn’t An Attic, It’s A LOFT But Attic Sounds Better)

 

Last night I set some traps to try and catch the DEMON in my loft, but before I set the traps I had to find the correct protective clothing to protect me, namely -

MY GAS MASK — to prevent me from INHALING THE DEMON

MY PROTECTIVE ALL-IN-ONE SUIT THAT FORENSIC BOFFINS AND CHEMICAL DISASTER BODS WEAR — to prevent me from ABSORBING THE DEMON

MY GOOD, STURDY HIKING BOOTS THAT I HAVEN’T WORN FOR YEARS — to STOMP ON THE DEMON or to KICK THE DEMON if the need arose.

 

So, suitably dressed, I set about laying my traps –

First, I substituted all my Cumberland sausages for the LINDA McCARTNEY VEGETARIAN SHITE SAUSAGES I’d cleverly and cunningly ordered from the online 24 hr Tesco (that is one BIG Tesco – the shop must be the size of Ireland!) and that I had delivered yesterday afternoon (Branwell answered the door).

Next, I substituted all my Hobnobs for ROUND RYVITAS (HA HA HA HA) that were also delivered from online 24 hr Tesco.

Then, I went upstairs and sat on the floor directly below the LOFT HATCH. I crossed my legs like a proper YOGI, stretched my arms into the air and touched the tips of my fingers together to make myself into a TRIANGLE and I sat there all night EXUDING GOODNESS. I exuded such great amounts of GOODNESS the house nearly floated away. I couldn’t believe I had that much GOODNESS in me, (it isn’t there now, it’s gone, I exuded it all out), SHEDLOADS of GOODNESS that I aimed up into the air, through the loft hatch and INTO THE DEMON.

It didn’t work. At least it didn’t bring the DEMON out of the loft - BUT, while I was being a TRIANGLE, exuding GOODNESS, the DEMON started singing. It sang –

 

“I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me.

HE’S JUST A POOR BOY, FROM A POOR FAMILY,

SPARE HIM HIS LIFE FROM THESE QUORN SAUSAGES.

Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?

BISMILLAH! NO! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

BISMILLAH! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

BISMILLAH! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go-0-0-0-0-0-!

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!

Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go!

Beelzebub has a devil in the sideboard - me! – poor me - poor meeeeeeee…”

 

Now, I need to tell you something about HOW he was singing – he was singing in TONGUES and one of the tongues (the red bits) was MINE – and what I want to know is HOW THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT? It sounded like Demon Duelling Banjos with words, him-me-him-me-him-me but my mouth didn’t move AT ALL, it stayed WIDE OPEN all the time I was there (to exude GOODNESS) and anyway I was wearing my GAS MASK and the way I’d put it on over my WIDE OPEN MOUTH meant there was no way on this earth that I COULD have closed my mouth, it was STUCK OPEN and no one can sing with a STUCK OPEN WIDE OPEN MOUTH unless they’re some sort of genius ventriloquist and there aren’t any genius ventriloquists, you can ALWAYS see movement. 

But last night wasn’t a COMPLETE waste – he’s given away his EXACT LOCATION in my loft. He’s living in the old sideboard that belonged to Granny Euphemia and when Granny Euphemia died she left it to my dear dead Daddy and when my dear dead Daddy died he left it to me but I don’t like it, it’s fuck ugly and riddled with woodworm (HA! I just wrote WORMWOOD instead of WOODWORM because I’m so used to writing WORMWOOD. I changed it). Also, it looks as if maybe I’m starting to get to him a bit, disconcert the little fucker. But he’s a stubborn one. This morning I’ve been back to online 24 hr Tesco to order more AMMO. Here’s a list of the ammo I’ve ordered —

more LINDA McCARTNEY VEGETARIAN QUORN CARDBOARD SAUSAGES

more ROUND RYVITAS

mothballs

rat poison

6 bottles of Domestos – kills all known germs. DEAD

caustic soda

some apples (they worked on Eve)

a fishing net

12 bottles of Harrogate Spring Water (online 24 hr Tesco don’t sell Holy Water)

And I was thinking of ordering a copy of Fifty Shades of Shite so the DEMON would get the impression I’ve read it, but nope, I couldn’t do it, a little voice in my head kept arguing with itself -

DEMON?/Shadey Shite? 

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

and the DEMON won.

 

So now it’s a waiting game. A battle of wills. Dark versus light, good versus bad (erm, which side am I on?), saintliness versus evil. Dotty versus Demon.  

BRING IT ON, FUCKER. NO ONE BEATS DOTTY. NO ONE AND NO THING. NOTHING.

 

 

 

 

N.B. — In case it’s gone unnoticed, you should take note that I’ve used the word ‘versus’ and not the abbreviation of the word ‘versus’ which should be a small ‘v’ but is now usually shown as a capital letter when, for example, a football match is being advertised –

LIVERPOOL V EVERTON

Not only is the word ‘versus’ abbreviated to an incorrect capital ‘v’, it’s also SPOKEN as the letter ‘v’ (vee) by STUPID ILLITERATE SLOPEY-BROWS ON THE TELLY —

LIVERPOOL VEE EVERTON

Ah, fuck it – I might just keep the DEMON and get him to spew some vile bile and brimstone over ALL THE STUPID PEOPLE.

 

 

Guess Who’s Coming To My House This Afternoon?

 

Last night I was bored and lonely again so I got my Ouija board out, hoping for a nice chat with someone interesting. Did I get a nice chat with someone interesting? Did I fuck. I never seem to get anyone interesting – the other night (Sunday, I think), I was talking to a woman from Jarrow, a seamstress who went on and on about sewing and all things to do with sewing – stitches, seams, pleats, materials, threads, needles, thimbles, tape measures, scissors, eyesight, bleeding fingers, the price of candles. NOTHING ELSE. She didn’t even tell me her name. And she began every sentence with “Eeeee, pet,” which is fine when you’re SPEAKING or TYPING it but spelling out each letter of “Eeeee pet,” when the glass has to return to the centre between letters and you haven’t even started your sentence yet is BEYOND BORING for the person at the other end (ME).

I wanted to talk to someone WITH SOMETHING TO SAY. But I always get boring people.

WHY DO I ALWAYS GET BORING PEOPLE?

Where are the FIRST DINOSAUR DIGGER-OUTERS? MARY? GIDEON? RICHARD? What are you doing, why won’t you talk to me?

Where are the people who know my future? MOTHER SHIPTON, COME OUT, COME OUT, WHERE EVER YOU ARE!!

Or a good headshrinker (not Freud)?

Or a maths genius who can work out the winning lottery numbers for next week?

Fuck knows where they are, all I know is THEY’RE NOT ON MY OUIJA BOARD.

So who did I end up talking to out of ALL THE DEAD PEOPLE IN DEAD PEOPLE WORLD?

Little Emily, that’s who. She started fucking about with the glass before I’d placed all the letters out.

D

centre

O

centre

T

centre

T

centre

Y

centre

I

centre

T

centre

S

centre

E

centre

M

centre

I

centre

L

centre

Y

centre

and then she moaned for 40 minutes because she couldn’t find an apostrophe (I lost it one night after a conversation with Barbara Taylor Bradford).

While she was moaning about the missing apostrophe, I was puzzling over WHY she was talking to me through the Ouija board. She only lives up the road, the lazy cow, she could have walked down to see me like she always did before she turned into a TRAITOR and went off with that zombie dog-fuck, Kumblant.  I knew she wasn’t ill again, and I knew she wasn’t dead (well, no more dead than she already is) because Branwell would have told me, so it wasn’t that she was UNABLE to come to my house to talk to me - obviously she didn’t WANT to. So why was she hijacking my Ouija board?

I slapped my hand on the arse of the glass to stop her apostrophe whinge.

WHY ARE YOU HIJACKING MY OUIJA BOARD? I asked.

I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU.

COME AND SEE ME TOMORROW AFTERNOON. 

WILL I BE WELCOME IN YOUR HOUSE?

NOT REALLY BUT TONIGHT I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEBODY WHO ISNT YOU.

EXPECT ME AT THREE OCLOCK.

ALL RIGHT. FUCK OFF NOW. 

AS YOU WISH. GOODNIGHT DOTTY MY DEAR FRIEND.

DEAR FRIEND? 

But she had gone. AND it was too late to start talking to anyone else so I put the Ouija board away, had a few Cumberland sausages for my supper, went for a wee and a wash, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

 

 

She’ll be here in just over an hour and I don’t know what she wants. I spent the morning trying to stay calm but after I’d had my dinner (Cumberland sausage sandwiches so the smell will linger and she’ll realise what she’s been missing) I had a little panic attack, then another, then another, then another, then another, then another. And I can feel another one coming on now so I’m going to crush up a packet of beta-blockers and stir them into a glass of laudanum then hopefully I’ll be able to cope with her when she arrives.

I’ll let you know what happens.

 

 

It’s All In The Eyes – What NOT To Do With A Character’s Eyes If You Don’t Want Your Readers To Piss Themselves Laughing

 

As a reader, I’m going to give you some examples of what NOT to do with your character’s eyes because I’M SICK OF SEEING THIS SORT OF SHITE – if I’m reading a book, or a short story, or a fictional blog post, and you’ve drawn me into the story and I like your characters and I’m reading on because I want to know what happens next, I DON’T WANT TO END UP LAUGHING AT YOU BECAUSE YOU DID SOMETHING STUPID WITH YOUR CHARACTER’S EYES. And that’s what I DO, I laugh at you – then I get MAD and I throw your book/story at the bin after I’ve jumped on it a few times, or I shut down the window that has your blog in it WITH A VERY HARD CLICK OF THE BUTTON. And why do I do that?  BECAUSE YOU’VE TURNED YOUR STORY INTO BOLLOCKS WITH YOUR BAD WRITING. And then I go away and I NEVER read anything of yours EVER, EVER AGAIN.

 

So what do I mean by “what NOT to do with your character’s eyes”?

THIS is what I mean –

“… she rolled her eyes at him.” — We all know this one, it’s a standing joke. You should NEVER roll your character’s eyes because the immediate response of the reader is to laugh and think ‘HE ROLLED THEM BACK.’  — AND THE READER STOPS READING BECAUSE THEY THINK THE REST OF YOUR STORY WILL BE A LOAD OF WANK EVEN IF THEY’VE ENJOYED IT UP TO THAT POINT.

 

More examples (with the additional info of what the reader thinks) –

 

“She fell into his deep blue eyes” — never to be seen again, even after the MISSING posters went up around town and the police got 3 phone calls on the first day.

“Her eyes fell to the mess on the floor” — never to be seen again because without her eyes she couldn’t see to clean up.  

“Her eyes danced around the room” — The Waltz? The Lambada? The Funky Chicken?

“His eyes burned into her” — FIRE! FIRE! HELP!

“Her eyes widened” — Get yourself to Casualty, pet, that sounds serious.

“She ran her eyes across his chest” — Brrmm, brrmm.

“Her eyes were deep pools of fresh, clear water” — Do you need a fishing licence? I’ve heard tales of a MASSIVE KILLER PIKE in there.

“Her eyes pierced into him” — her miraculous stabby eyes.

“Her eyes darted round the room.” — Come here, you little fuckers!!

“He pinned her to the bed with his eyes” — He’d have been better off using a Black & Decker Nail Gun, £39.99 at B&Q

“Her eyes landed on his face” — Aaarrggh, get them off, get them off!!!

“He felt her eyes on his back” — I told you, get them off me! Stop it, you sick bitch!!

“She cast her eyes to the floor” — Ooops, you’ve lost them now – they’ve rolled under the fridge. 

 

And there are LOADS more but I can’t be bothered thinking of them right now. 

 

 

Oh, and another couple of things that make me SEETHE AND WANT TO BATTER YOU TO DEATH WITH YOUR BOOK even though they have nothing to do with eyes –

 

“She subsided onto the floor/chair/bed” – It might be TECHNICALLY CORRECT regarding definition of the word ‘subside’ but it sounds FUCKING STUPID. Don’t do it.

 

AND

 

“He fell onto the plate of chicken and ate it all within seconds.” — written when a character is overly hungry and someone presents him with a plate of chicken. NO HE DIDN’T FALL ONTO THE PLATE OF CHICKEN or the second part of the sentence would read something like “…and ended up with four stitches on his chin and a wing jammed up his left nostril.”

 

 

Eliminate all the SHITE from your work. It’s not creative, it’s not a clever use of language, it’s SHITE. Plain and simple SHITE.

STOP IT.

 

 

Dotty’s New Novel – Part 2 – This Is Not A Love Story

 

Before I get started, here’s the link to the first post I did about my novel in case you’ve forgotten I was writing one or you’re a recent follower who hasn’t seen the post.

 

DOTTY’S FIRST NOVEL – BUY IT, BUY IT, BUY IT EVERYBODY 

 

It’s been a while since I last posted about my novel and progress has been GOOD. I’ve decided (a decision!!) that my novel will NOT be a love story (you might have already spotted that bit in the title), it’s going to be a HATE story because there are far too many love stories in the world and NOT NEARLY ENOUGH hate stories - NONE that I can think of, but I might be wrong. And why is that, you might ask?

It’s because of the RAMPANT and SICKENING hatred people have for hate. THE HATRED OF HATE is WRONG. Hating hate is HATEFUL and DETESTABLE and it needs to STOP. Hate should be allowed the same rights as any other emotion. Aren’t we supposed to be striving for a world of EQUALITY and TOLERANCE? A world in which all are fairly treated and everyone is given the same respect and dues as everyone else? But no it isn’t like that, is it? The world is full of BIGOTRY and DISCRIMINATION. Those who hate hate are nothing but hatists, which, by the way, is pronounced hate-ist not hat-ist so really it should be spelt hateist but then people would pronounce it like atheist, hate-eist and there’s no such word. Oh, wait, hang on a minute — on second thoughts YES IT CAN BE HATEIST because AGEIST has kept the E and no one pronounces it ag-eist (rhyming with raggiest), do they?

So don’t be a hateful hateist full of hatred for HATE. It’s not nice. GIVE HATE A CHANCE.

 

 

So now you know the main theme for my novel (hate). And you also know, from what I’ve just said, that my novel will incorporate many elements of my campaign for equality for hate, that within the complex and refined layers and depths of my novel the crusade for fairness will always prevail, transmitting its honour and rightness directly to the hearts of my readers via subliminal messages intertwined throughout my carefully chosen words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters.

 

 

Which leads me to the reason for this post. I want to give you the privilege of being the first people to see MY SECOND WORD OF MY FIRST NOVEL. I’ll also give you a demonstration of how my subliminal messages work.

 

My first word is –

The

my second word is —

threat 

 

Can you see what I’ve done? Can you?

my first word is THE

my second word is THREAT

my second word includes ALL THE LETTERS THAT MAKE UP MY FIRST WORD with the remaining letters spelling RAT and what is THE RAT if it isn’t a THREAT?

AND

THE RAT is an ANAGRAM of THREAT.

Also, I’ve very cleverly used the word THREAT because it includes my theme word HATE and the remaining letters when you take out the word HATE are the letters T and R which, when put together and repeated fast enough, sound like the word TEAR and what happens when you see a RAT that you HATE and it’s a THREAT? You cry a little TEAR, don’t you? And, if you haven’t already noticed, the word TEAR is also included within the word THREAT. So is the word EAT (what the RAT will do to you) and the word ATE (what the RAT did to someone else).

AND – the word HEART is within the word THREAT.

ART is there too.

So is HEAT.

 

 

Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? I doubt whether Kafka or Stendhal or Hemingway could have come up with such LITERARY EXCELLENCE in such a short space of time. In fact, I’m doing so well with this, my first novel, I’m writing so speedily and with such depth, that I’m thinking of making a WHOLE NEW BLOG for my novel in order to show all you wannabes out there HOW IT’S DONE.

 

Thank you and goodnight.

 

 

 

 

N.B. — It’s not night, it’s morning. But night sounds better.

 

No Post Today Because I Can’t Be Arsed. I Can’t Do A One Word Post Because I’ve Already Done One, I Can’t Do A Picture Because It Isn’t Sunday, So You’ll Have To Make Do With NOTHING

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.

 

HELLO! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?

 

These are the floorboards I’m hiding under.

They’re made of wood.

Wood gives you SKELFS.

*

*

This is one of my suits of armour.

I’m wearing it to solve the problem of SKELFS.

It’s not my NICEST suit of armour, but it offers the most protection

against not only SKELFS but SPIDERS and OTHER NASTY THINGS

that live under floorboards. And the matching sword has a FINE slice to it.

I haven’t bothered putting on the chain mail, I don’t need it today,

I’ve worn my WORDY ERROR HAIR-SHIRT instead.

Unless there’s a particularly BIG SKELF waiting for me -

maybe I SHOULD have worn chain mail.

Fuck.

Oh well, it’s too late now.

Can someone pass me a Cumberland sausage sandwich, please?

*

*

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?

 

 

Dead Husband Ex-Simon – Happy Birthday To You, Happy Birthday To You, Happy Birthday Dead Ex-Simon, Happy Birthday To You – Part 4

 

I spent yesterday afternoon in a bit of a tizz, wondering why I was SO bothered about the state of my house that I felt the need to advertise for a cleaner. I don’t usually notice how manky it is – it’s a good couple of months since I was last aware of it. And then I remembered – today would have been my dead husband ex-Simon’s birthday and I was missing his marvellous house-cleaning skills! If there was one thing he was good at, it was cleaning. I’m not buying him a card though, he’s dead, it’d be a waste of money and anyway I don’t think they make cards that say ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE ONE I LOVED UNTIL HE TURNED INTO A TWAT AND I HAD TO KILL HIM,‘ do they? Actually, they probably do, they make cards for everything nowadays.

Thinking back, I should have had our horoscopes done when I met him, to suss out our levels of compatability. Two Cancerians? Nah, no chance, it was DOOMED in the stars – CRAB FIGHT ALERT, CRAB FIGHT ALERT - written there for all to see and all I had to do was LOOK – but I didn’t. Idiot. He was a sulky git (have I told you that in Parts 1, 2 or 3a? I might have, I don’t know). He could sulk for days if he had a mind to – he was sulking on the day I shot him because I didn’t like the present he gave me (a reminder of what it was in case you can’t be bothered to go back and read the other posts - a fucking HOOVER for my Valentine’s Day present). It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s STILL sulking about that day – GET OVER IT, EX-SIMON, WE ALL HAVE TO DIE SOME TIME, IN SOME WAY.

Whatever age he would have been today – and I’m not telling you so don’t ask me – his mind would have been around 98 going on 150. Talk about OLD BEFORE HIS TIME – think of a cross between Edward Norton (looks), a young Robert De Niro (looks) and Victor Meldrew, Patrick the Astronomy bloke whose surname I can’t remember, and EVERY OTHER WHINGEING OLD MOANING BASTARD YOU’VE EVER KNOWN (personality) and that was ex-Simon. I did him a favour – fuck knows what he’d have been like if I’d let him live to 35.

So anyway, I’m having a little birthday party for him tonight. My guests will be ME and BRANWELL, who called round this morning for his breakfast. I don’t know where the fuck little Emily is, she’s probably eloped with the stinking pygmy dog-man, but I’ll get it out of Branwell tonight when he’s pissed and in a fugue. He thinks he’s being clever and cagey when he avoids my questions about her but I’m not STUPID, I once did a MENSA test and got all the questions RIGHT (except maths) and it only took me 3 months to complete so my IQ is fucking SKY HIGH, it’s out of the ATMOSPHERE, it’s zooming towards PLUTO (the planet, not the dog).

I did have a fleeting feeling that it might be WRONG of me to have a birthday party for ex-Simon, but Branwell said No, birthday parties are NEVER wrong, so that put my mind at rest and I’ve started cooking already. Here’s what’s on the party grub list -

 

Cumberlaudanum Sausage sandwiches (a HUGE pile of them)

An opium birthday cake

Another opium cake with chocolate chips

Laudanum fairy cakes with buttercream (Branwell’s favourite)

Absinthe

More Absinthe

Opium

Laudanum

A strawberry jelly (with laudanum)

A packet of Texas BBQ Pringles (left over from Christmas)

A home-made opium, laudanum, absinthe, Hellman’s Extra Light Mayonnaise DIP for us to dip the Pringles in

 

And I have no fear that this party will end up like the other one (that was a BAD party) because Branwell is nice and kind and won’t laugh at me when I do the AGADOO-DOO-DOO dance because I TAUGHT HIM IT and he LOVES IT.

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EX-SIMON, where ever you are.

 

Dotty Does It Again – Dibble Defeated

 

I have a secret to tell you. I wasn’t allowed to say anything before but now I can BECAUSE NO ONE CAN DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

The secret is that after the horrendous way Sergeant Sherlock treated me (REMEMBER HIM?), the Big Chief Inspector and I had an agreement - when a complaint is made about me he sends his underlings round to my house to take a statement, all official-like, then, before the statement can be filed, he makes it go away and he makes the complaint go away and if he HAS to he makes the complainants go away too. In return, I don’t tell the newspapers about his druggy Sergeant who tried to take advantage of a poor, vulnerable, mentally-different She-Hermit (ME!).

The agreement worked well when everything went to plan, but in a situation like the one that happened yesterday afternoon when everything DIDN’T go to plan, it can all go tits up.

It started with the underling Dibbles being late. It’s a stipulation of our agreement that I NEVER have to wait for them, EVER, and the resulting panic attacks left me unable to answer the door when the fuckers DID decide to turn up. So what did they do? They BROKE THE DOOR DOWN, picked me up off the floor and arrested me, then they radioed for the Black Maria, threw me inside it and took me to the station where they PUT ME IN A CELL AND LEFT ME THERE TO ROT. All I could do was have panic attack after panic attack and vomit my innards into their nasty metal toilet. A doctor came after fuck knows how long and calmed me down enough for me to ask to see the Big Chief Inspector who didn’t come downstairs to my cell until about three months later.

RESULT

I now have COMPLETE IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE AND INSTANT DOUBLE DIBBLE PROTECTION IF I EVER FEEL I’M BEING GOT AT. Like a diplomat. Like the Queen. Like Prince William. Like Prince Harry. Like Princess Kathy. Like Prince Charles (who we should never almost forget because he IS the first in line).

I also received a profuse and exorbitant and extremely satisfying apology from the Big Chief Inspector.

I was also awarded a very nice, very shiny QUEEN’S POLICE MEDAL which I spotted in the display cabinet in the Big Chief Inspector’s office – it was originally awarded to the Big Chief Inspector for saving the lives of twenty-four people in something or other, I don’t know what, I wasn’t really listening until he said I deserved it more than he did. Very true.

I was also given the promise (a written promise, naturally) of transport to and from where ever I want to go when I’m ready and able to leave my house – which means that when I’m cured of Hermititis and People Phobia, I’ll NEVER HAVE TO PAY FOR A TAXI FROM TESCO EVER AGAIN.

BOSH!

DOTTY WINS AGAIN.

NO ONE BEATS DOTTY.

 

 

Dottygeddon – The Aftermath

 

Well, I suppose you know the routine by now. This time it went -

Dibble

Fire Brigade

Ambulance

jags in the arse

home

They tried to keep me in (Section blah-blah-fuckitty-fuck) and this time Scotty wasn’t there to shag the FEMALE HEADSHRINKER into compliance so for a while it looked like you wouldn’t be seeing me again for however long UNTIL I remembered I had my mobile phone in my pocket and on my mobile phone are the photos Scotty took when he was in the toilet cubicle with her so I let her have a little look at them and she signed me out, no problem. Before you judge me and accuse me of BLACKMAIL, no I’m not a BLACKMAILER, I’m a SHE-HERMIT and She-Hermits don’t DO hospital stays.

 

I’m vague about what went on before they came and carted me off (Lottie filled me in later), but the bits I do remember include –

 

 me standing at my bedroom window frisbeeing my cds at the gasmen (I hope I didn’t use my Doo Wop!!!!)

me lighting a little bonfire in my kitchen – I don’t know who built the bonfire, it might have been me.

something smashy happening with my lump hammer, I don’t know what but when I got home my cooker was missing.

And that’s all I remember until I woke up.

 

Bits of me are stitched, other bits are bruised and I’ve been wondering if the bruises were caused by little Emily giving me a good kicking but Branwell swears she was at home the other night so it couldn’t have been her. The bit of me with the most stitches is my forehead, six, seven or eight (it’s hard to tell the exact amount without a mirror) in a continuous line so it’s definitely a brick slice, not the trepanning. It doesn’t hurt though, the painkillers she sent me home with are GOOD.

 

On the POSITIVE SIDE (yes, I’m still being positive) –

1 – all my windows are intact

2 – Lottie said the surgeons managed to extract the CD from the digger-driver’s neck AND IT ISN’T A DOO WOP CD. It’s a bootleg copy of Bat Out Of Hell II which I’m not that bothered about because I bought the proper one a couple of years ago. It did cost me a fiver at the time though but I don’t suppose the NHS will reimburse me even though I bet the surgeons took so long to get it out because they didn’t want to snap it or affect its playability.

3 – No one else was injured apart from me and the digger-driver. Lottie disagrees, she includes the boss of the gasmen in the count but I wouldn’t class being scalped as being INJURED, would you? He had a bit of receeding going on at the front anyway. If I could go out I’d nip out the front and have a little look for it, it’d make a nice trophy, I could hang it next to Jolyon, my mounted boar’s head. Lottie’s being a bitch again, she won’t go and find it for me.

4 – I had a good, long sleep.

 

So that’s me. I’m not hiding ANYTHING from you, I’m being as truthful and honest as whatever is the most truthful and honest thing in the world, which might be a newborn baby but it might not because who knows what newborn babies aren’t telling us? I’m expecting a visit from Dibble later so I’m off to make some nice Cumberlaudanum sausage sandwiches in case I need to feed them.

 

 

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

 

 

 

*

 

 

Dotty’s First Novel – Buy It – Buy It – Buy It Everybody!

 

Not yet though. I haven’t finished writing it but when I do, and when it’s been published by Penguin or Random House or whoever bids the highest amount, you’ll be able to buy it and tell all your friends and family and followers to buy it too.

Here’s an exclusive preview of what I’ve written so far –

 

The

 

It’s BRILLIANT, isn’t it? The Man Booker Prize will be MINE – eat your heart out, hoity-toity literary fuckers, here comes DOTTY HEADBANGER to blow you out of the wordy-water with the best novel ever written in the history of novel-writing.

It’s about THE… something. Or someone. A woman or a man. Or it could be a child – yes, a child would work, people like children. Something bad happens to the child, then something worse happens, then something miraculous happens which brings about a change for the better, then the lesson is learnt and the child lives happily ever after.

Shite, I’ve just told you the ending - I can’t do the child now, I’ve spoilt it by blabbling.

THE man…? THE woman…? THE dog…? THE antelope…? THE house…?

Oh yes, I need to put in a PLOT WITH SOME ACTION IN IT, don’t I? And some CHARACTERISATION. And DIALOGUE (that’s easy, it’s just ‘he said, she said’ – note to self – don’t use anything but ‘said’), and a few nicely layered, grand THEMES - life, death, love, hate, etc etc. A VOICE and some LANGUAGE have to go in too, some ORIGINALITY, some PACE, RHYTHM and FLOW. And an UNFORGETTABLE FUCKING WHAMMY OF AN ENDING.

Hey, it’s like a big pot of soup, isn’t it? In go the carrots, onions, leeks, lentils, flavouring and all the rest of the shite you throw in your soup.

Okay, what else? SUSPENSE – I’ve already got that, you want to know what happens next, don’t you? Because do you see what I did there with my OPENING WORD, the one I carefully and painstakingly selected after weeks of thought? I chose this particular OPENING WORD because it immediately pulls you, the Reader, into the fictive dream I’ve created for you, it transports you to THE WORLD INSIDE MY NOVEL. There’s no AUTHOR INTRUSION, no FLOWERY PROSE, there’s just PURE DRAMATIC FICTION right from the start. BOSH.

 

The

 

I’m working on my SECOND WORD right now but I don’t know whether or not I’ll post it here in case some fucker plagiarises me. You can’t be too careful, authors are thieves and liars by nature (not me!), and I wouldn’t trust an author as far as I could throw it. Hmmm. What to do? I don’t know, I’ll decide when I’ve written my SECOND WORD and let you know, but be prepared, you’ll probably have to wait until the book is launched to read it WHEN YOU HAVE BOUGHT A COPY (hardback).

 

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 Was Nearly GASSED And BLOWN TO BITS…

 

… and it WASN’T MY FAULT this time. The gas board have been replacing all the pipes on the street and they had to dig a hole in my garden path right next to the house - NOISY NOISY NOISY even with earplugs. A while after they’d finished I thought I could smell gas but I thought, ‘Nah, Dotty, you’re having yourself on, you’re imagining it because the gas board are outside.’

A bit later I started with a little headache so I went to the back door for some fresh air and a ciggie. When I went back into the hallway IT STANK OF GAS, really strong, so I rang Lottie who came round and asked a gasman what was happening and guess what the fucker said? He said ‘Oh yeah, there’s a big leak. The drill hit the pipe. Someone’s coming to cap it off.’

So now I’ve NO GAS.

And the FUCKING FUCKERS NEARLY KILLED ME and they didn’t even have the decency to knock and tell me I was going to die.

Customer care, my arse. More like Customer MURDER.

 

 

(I wouldn’t have answered if they HAD knocked, but that’s not the point).

 

Kumblant Zozeech – Very Sad Journal Of Very Sad Pygmy Were-Zompire – Three Part

 

Noise of ROAAAAARRGGGHHHH from Frydeg’s hut. Then noise of silence, loud as ROAAAARRRGGGHHH. My head has picture of Frydeg, Frydeg’s family, all dead. I lie on floor of look-hut for tiny time then I jump up - must ring bell! Why I not do it when Tostidteekayk come? Bad boy, stupid! I clang bell with hard strength, DONG DONG DONG and it seem take for always till first man run from hut. Is Soopanoodl, field-man. He run to look-hut, ‘What? What?’ he shout. ‘Shooosh!’ I say. I tell him what and as I tell him what, all village mens come, my father, my brother, all mens. Unyunbaaji, head village man, take charge when he hear what I say.

He think for minute then whisper loud orders, ‘You – animals. You - turnip bed. You – potato bed. You - cabbage bed. YOU, YOU, YOU, YOU, YOU (and more YOUs) – all huts.’

Village mens run where he say. My brother run to my hut, father to fields. Four mens remain, Unyunbaaji say, ‘We go there.’ He point to Frydeg’s hut.

I say, ‘What I can do?’

‘Shine torch,’ he say.

I shine torch in Frydeg’s door. I watch. Unyunbaaji, his four mens, run in. Silence. Silence. SHOUTS and BANGS and SHOUTS! One man come out, bring Frydeg’s mother, not dead, Frydeg’s sister, not dead. Where Frydeg? I see backs of two mens come slow through door, bend, arse first. They bend in two, I think they hurt even but they move. Then I know what they do – they drag! They drag a thing! They drag it out, then out come other village man, Unyunbaaji, Frydeg – not dead!

I see Frydeg not dead, I think I want shine torch on thing they drag out. Is Tostidteekayk? I want look, even but I no want look. I have fear I see a horrible fright I not ever unsee.

Village mens are all come, village womens, children. All stand back from big thing, circle round, silent, watch three mens poke it, two mens with forks, one man with hoe.

I want better look so I shine torch quick before I am chicken out. Thing is big, size of hairy forest wild pig. I look close – no, I am wrong, is bigger than hairy forest wild pig, big as half a cow. No move, even but mens poke it – I think is dead. I travel torch up to head - ay-ay-ay - is face like old baldy dog, snout, teeth, eyes, all dog, even but is pink, no hair. Yuurkkhh, it remember me of baby rabbit just born. I travel torch down, I see clothes, torn, soak in blood, same clothes Tostidteekayk wear. I unbelieve it, even but I see through my eyes. Yes, is Tostidteeykayk. My God, what is happen to him?

Unyunbaaji walk over to Tostidteekayk. He say something to the mens who poke him. I not hear. Before I have time to move torch shine, one of the mens, Meetpasti the hut-maker, lift up his fork and DIG it through Tostidteekayk’s head, hard, and I hear crunch and squish and my belly heaves and I turn and be sick on look-hut floor, all in few seconds of time. When I look down again, I see Meetpasti walk away. He leave it there, fork, stand up in Tostidteekayk’s head.

 

Victor Tookes Came Out Of His Books To Visit Dotty

For some strange and unfathomable reason I seem to attract a lot of dead people and fictional characters into my life. I don’t know WHY I attract them, maybe it’s because they can smell the heady and alluring aroma of Cumberland sausages floating from my kitchen and they want some. Maybe they feel sorry for me? Maybe they just like giving me presents?

Victor Tookes (the zombie killer) gave me a present when he called round on Saturday. I wasn’t expecting anyone so when I opened the door (hooray me!) and saw it was Victor standing there I almost had a full-blown panic attack – I thought he’d come to kill Kumblant! But no he hadn’t, he come to give me a present (or so he said, I think he really wanted a Cumberland sausage sandwich – he ate 12). We had a little natter after he’d scranned his sandwiches then he had to go, back to Book Four before he was missed.

After he left I started reading my present. It’s called

WHAT ZOMBIES FEAR – A FATHER’S QUEST

and it’s the first in a series of three (the fourth is being written NOW, that’s why Victor had to rush off - in case something drastic happened and he wasn’t there to help stop it). I read it over two nights, and if you saw my post last week about reading a book for the first time in ages you’ll know I have difficulty concentrating – I STILL haven’t finished that book I told you I’d started – but Victor’s story is a true page-turner, it kept me engrossed all the way through. I’m not telling you what it’s about except that it’s set after the zombie apocalypse, but you can tell how much I like it (and Victor’s blog) by the very fact that I’m doing this post.

If you like zombie apocalypse stories this is one of the better ones, if you’ve never read a zombie apocalypse story go and buy this one, you won’t be disappointed, and if you think you don’t like zombie apocalypse stories buy it anyway, it’ll change your mind.

If you go to Victor’s blog you’ll be able to read more about the characters through their side stories and find out how to buy the books.

WHAT ZOMBIES FEAR

Now for Book Two…

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.

 

A Very, Very Short Post That Isn’t Really A Post

 

I’m not doing a post today. I’m reading a book — for the first time in fuck knows how long I can concentrate on reading something longer than a blog post because this morning Kumblant brought me some squishy workman’s earplugs that block out all outside noises and leave me with just the noises in my head to listen to – oh, and my heart beat has moved up to my brain, bdum, bdum, bdum, so at least I know I’m not dead. 

The book’s called ‘The Wilding’ and it’s by Maria McCann and it was longlisted for the Orange Prize and it was the top book on one of the stacks in my collection of books to read because I stack them as I get them so the most recent acquisition goes on top. Up to now it’s fair to middling and I haven’t thrown it out of the window in disgust although in my opinion the MC sounds just the slightest bit too girly for a 26 year old man (I thought he WAS a girl in the first few sentences of the book) although he isn’t girly, but he isn’t exactly a stud either. Normally something like that would bother me enough for me not to continue (so many books, so little time) but it’s not a heavy read by any stretch so I’m just enjoying it for what it is (good story, nice suspense build up, gentle humour etc etc).

So, sorry and all that, but no post today – unless I get sick of the tinnitus and being reminded I’m alive by the bdum.

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Kumblant Zozeech – Very Sad Journal Of Very Sad Pygmy Were-Zompire – Two Part

 

One night in winter comes, dark but for milky shine of fat moon. I am in look-hut, cold even but I am snuggle in guard-blanket stitched by Grandmother Zozeech in time she not blind. This night I listen for owls in forest, hoot-hoot. I hear no hoot even but is perfect night for hunt mouse or vole. All shoosh, no wind.

I am at end of night guard, soon to bed. I wait for Frydeg arrive, do his guard. Frydeg is good friend of me. Most friend. We two are borned together, same day, me first. We grow together, do boy things together. We are like brother to brother, even but I have family brother. Now we are of thirteen years, come to be men, good men we two will be, Kumblant and Frydeg.

I watch for him. Sudden from forest come crashing of bush and crunch of leaf under foots. I take torch, shine down. ‘Frydeg, where you been?’ I say.

Yet but what I see is Tostidteekayk run from forest. Is pig-man of village. He run to foot of look-hut, wave up to me.

‘Kumblant, bring torch. Come,’ he say.

‘No. I am night-guard. What you want?’

‘Pigs are dead. All dead.’

I am not believe. I am suspect a thing not right – Tostidteekayk come from forest, yet but pigs live in small field, not forest. ‘Why you in forest?’ I say.

‘I chase. I wake to noise of kill pigs, I run from bed. See wolf. I chase in forest.’

‘I see no wolf. I hear no kill.’ I move shine of torch bright into face of Tostidteekayk. He seem to be more – more big, more hair, more ears, more eyes, more teeth. I say, ‘What you want, Tostidteekayk?’

He no speak. I keep torch shine at him, he keep stand there, one minute, two minute, three minute. I not move my eyes from look at him. Four minute, five minute, then -

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNGG!

O no – my clock! I have set to midnight, for end my time of night guard. It make me fright. I jump, and torch jump. I put torch shine back on Tostidteekayk. He is gone.

Where he go? I shine, shine all over, I walk slow round look-hut, shine every place down below. No Tostidteekayk.

Also no Frydeg – is time for end my night guard, Frydeg not here do his. I shine torch to door of Frydeg’s hut – is open. I lean out of look-hut, try see in Frydeg’s hut, shine torch in open door – I hear noise inside. I see nothing, yet but I hear noise like scratch, scratch, scratch.

Is Tostidteekayk?

I am very afright. Frydeg, his family. I lean more from look-hut, move torch shine slow to look hard in open door – no, I not see. And not hear. Is quiet, no scratch, no noise, no nothing. I wait. I am not move, I am like dead boy, my breath is stopped, my heart is not beat.

When it come, I fall back on floor of look-hut, terrifright. It is noise of ROAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHH. It is come from Frydeg’s hut.

 

I KNOW HOW TO STOP GETTING COMMENTS EMAILS WITHOUT UNTICKING THE BOX

 

Do you want to know how to stop getting all those emails when you forget to untick the box on blogs that haven’t had the thingy disabled?

 

 

 

 

Do you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know how to.

 

 

 

 

 

I did some investigating while I can’t concentrate enough to write a post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you want me to tell you?

 

 

 

 

Or are you okay as you are?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you sorted it out?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you always remember to untick the box?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HA HA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, enough tormenting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Go to Reader — Blogs I Follow and at the bottom of the left hand column you’ll see, in small faded letters –

‘MANAGE EMAIL DELIVERY SETTINGS’

click on it, and down the list you’ll see a ‘FOLLOW COMMENTS’ box – untick it, and VOILA, no more emails.

 

 

Don’t all thank me at once.

 

Kumblant Zozeech – Very Sad Journal Of Very Sad Pygmy Were-Zompire – One Part

 

Hello. My names are Kumblant Zozeech. I am pygmy were-zompire in England in west part in Yorkshire. Here in journal I begin tell sad story of me. It very sad. It make you cry.

I come to England in west part in Yorkshire for work. I am good workman, strong like green Hulk. I am Road Clean Man, all day I clean road with broom, I sweep your dirt, your dust, your ends of cigarettes. I spike with spike-stick your packets from crisps, chocolate, lollipop, cigarette. It is good job for good workman like me.

I was previous in high profession of Vampire Killer in own country of birth, my country I miss in heart like I miss woman I love and family I love. In my country I had father, mother, sisters, brother, old Grandmother Zozeech who is wise magic witch in pygmy village. I was happy boy, play in forest from sun till set with brother and boys in pygmy village. We run, we fight, we make huts in trees. We fish for fishes, we trap rabbit and kill with stones. We ride hairy forest wild pig. We race – always I win even but I am runt boy of pygmy village.

My country is great, my village is shit. Two cows for milk, two goats for milk, three pigs for pig. Cabbage, beetroot, turnip, potato in field. My village animals lived precious by all, we keep animal we have food. But forest hides creatures dark and wicked, many creatures we know, many creatures we not see yet but we know they hide up tree, in bush, under pile of leaves. We sleep, they run out, steal girls in village, steal babies in village, steal food. This is good reason for guard our village with eyes like hawk. 

When I was boy I was night guard, nine to midnight, in high look-hut in village square. Raiders come, I ring bell – village run from huts, fight raiders with fork, shovel, knife, stick, try stop raiders steal what they come for. We win, they win. On very bad night when I am seven, a thing steal my baby sister, Beefibisto. Mama cries all day, all night. Papa shout ‘Shoosh, shoosh,’ at her always, he say many village men have loss inside huts but many village men have peace and quiet, no wails from woman.

Now, nobody there to wail. My pygmy village, all dead. My family, all dead. I tell you how they are all dead when I next time write. Goodbye.

 

The Artist (A Real Short Story)

 

The Artist

At his usual parking spot by the far entrance to the woods, he turns the front of his car away from the low morning sun and switches off the engine. He sits for a while, sucking a mint, studying the bare trees as he waits, memorising their various winter hues, determining how best to aesthetically represent their sleep.

After five minutes or so he sees her. She has a dog on an extendable lead, a struggling pup too small to climb the high stile leading into the woods. She lifts the pup with one arm, uses the other to hoist herself up and over to the other side. He gets out of the car, locks the door, and swings his rucksack over his shoulder.

He carries a set of pencils and a hardback sketchbook inside the bag. The first eighteen pages have been neatly sliced out of the book, projects complete, but the cut-lines barely show. His paints are in his studio with a bed, a kettle, a wardrobe, a bookcase, and, lined up against the walls, his paintings. A canvas, primed brilliant white, stands blank on the easel ready for his return.

She walks slowly. He finds this strange for such a cold morning; normally the dog walkers are brisk, they want to be home and warm. She wears jeans and boots; there is a twist to her step, an unbalancing so slight it needs a sharp eye to notice the way her left leg compensates. No eye is sharper than his… he observes she has stronger thigh muscles in that left leg, maybe a touch of cellulite on the right. Narrow shoulders, small waist above the width of her hips. Her jacket is short, fitted; the long fur trim of its hood forms a halo of white that half-circles the back of her slim neck. So far, so good. Multi-shaded hair, blonde, gold, copper; short and dyed, arranged in a careful disarray he guesses took a long time to style. She is promising but he needs a front view to be certain she is exactly what he wants; experience dictates plain Janes and wilting Violets transfer badly. Two of his early canvasses had to be shredded, slashed – the insipid blandness of his subjects showed through in his work, spoiling the whole. As he overtakes her, slowing down to keep in step, he looks, meets her eyes… emerald green, long lashes. Oval face; plump cheeks; nose with slightly too much of an upturn; neat mouth with well-defined lips. The cold makes her eyes bright and brings red to her cheeks. Although she is older than he thought, late twenties, the life-spark he wanted to see in her is vivid, lending her features a lustrous, striking radiance. But she is not beautiful, yet.

She nods a reserved greeting. He says, ‘Freezing, isn’t it?’ and she nods again. He smiles his trust-me smile, wide enough to allow the mint of his breath to drift out. They strike up a conversation centred on the pup. Her voice is light, airy, and his heart leaps when she tells him the animal’s name is Wilde, after the author – she reads, she has a brain. He favours his intelligent subjects, they inspire their own subtleties of tints and tones; he will limn this one in pure bronze, the colour he keeps specifically for the clever.

He maintains an assuring distance as he talks her towards his quiet spot, a small clearing surrounded by sycamores and oaks. The main path is far, far behind them, the wet leaf-bed underfoot too thick for sound. His practised manner is polite, interested – it invites her to speak the trivialities he needs to illuminate and colour her. She obliges. He anticipates she will shine on canvas.

He tells her he is an artist, a recorder of nature. She confirms her intelligence by asking knowledgeable questions about technique, texture, line and perspective. He answers leisurely, with long looks that hold her gaze; she does not look away. He mentions Rossetti, Holman Hunt, Millais, and a nearby gallery in which some of their paintings hang. ‘We could go together. Tomorrow?’ Her eyelids lower and she says, ‘I’d like that.’ He can smell, almost taste, the tartness of her need, her loneliness. They discuss addresses, times, transportation. Soon afterwards they reach his quiet spot where they stand for a minute or two watching Wilde scrabble down into a pile of black leaves as he digs for the source of some compelling odour.

He asks her to sit for him one day. She stiffens. He smiles (trust me) and says he merely wants to sketch her. He reaches into his rucksack and shows her his book and pencils. A few seconds pass before she nods, ‘Maybe. We’ll see.’ He asks if she means yes. ‘All right,’ she laughs, ‘yes, you can sketch me. One day.’

Her consent given, he takes the knife from his pocket. She freezes, her eyes widen and he has to blink rapidly to stop her life-light from blinding him. He stabs, one precise tidy thrust under the left breast – in, up, and twist. In less than half a minute she is ready to be posed.

The dog lead remains gripped in her hand; a slice to the twine and the pup runs free. He works quickly to remove her clothing, sees he was right about the cellulite. It distorts the line of her right thigh so he lays her on that side, in the root-hollow of an old sycamore, to hide the ugly puckering from view. He arranges her limbs, rests her head gently on the root. A thin channel of blood runs down past her right breast, seeps into and through her bed of leaves. He thinks he will emphasise this line of blood heavily with his darkest mix of carmines.

He crouches on one knee, rests his sketchbook on the other as he prepares to stroke her every detail onto the page. The sun is at his back, higher now. Her outline forms an exquisite horizon of contours as it dips and rises. The green of her eyes complements the intensity of the copper undertones in her hair, picturesque against the darker shades of the tree bark. Her delicate veins thread blue across her skin, stilled streams of life, and he knows with absolute certainty she will transfer perfectly from life to page to canvas.

He smiles.

She is beautiful now.

 

If You’ve Been Getting Loads Of Commenty Emails…

 

… click on the link to Roly’s blog and he’ll tell you how to stop getting them. All the emails I was getting were doing my napper in before I read this.

Sarchasm2

 

 

 

 

A Dotty Day Out – Adventures With Branwell (Part 1)

 

Yesterday morning I was in a strange double mood, good because the weather was Spring-like, bad because I wanted to go to my MEMORIAL BENCH. I posted a post asking if someone would please lend me their TELEPORTER and I was so grateful and surprised by all the positive replies that I found my little going-out rucksack and filled it with the things I need for going out - Cumberland sausages, 5 bottles of laudanum, 4 packs of beta-blockers, bottle of Diet Coke, bottle of water, hairbrush, purse, Nokia Hard Bastard, and the little present that Scotty bought me. Then I opened the back door and sat down on the lino, as close to the outside as I could get, and I waited. I waited for a long, long time. A long, long, long, long time.

Nobody came.

 

 

I don’t know what time it was when I heard footsteps coming round the side of the house. I jumped up and nearly fell back down again - my right leg gave way, it must have gone to sleep because of how I’d been sitting (cross-legged like a Yogi). It was only Branwell though, happy for a change, so happy the smile almost skipped off his face.

“Dotty, sweet Dotty! What brings you such sadness on this glorious day of splendiferous sunshine?”

I burst into tears and told him.

“No, no, no, come along. Weep not, my chickling, for here am I, Branwell the Magnificent, come to your rescue, sans white charger but with love and friendship uncurbed. Off we go, off we go.”

And he took my keys out of the door, grabbed my hand and pulled me OUTSIDE before I realised what was happening, then he locked the door, took my hand again, and away we went.

 

 

The street was heaving with PEOPLE, shouting bickering squabbling laughing braying PEOPLE, a polarised muddle of the wealthy middle classes posturing and preening their way round the shops, and the dirty, thin and stinking poor. I couldn’t take it all in, there was too much bustle and noise – beggars called out for pennies; women argued with stall-holders, trying for a bargain that wouldn’t happen; scrappy, raggy children ran to and fro, ducking and dodging; a wool-worker coughed and hawked up a great glob of blackness from his lungs and spat it out right in front of me; barrows and carts clattered on the cobbles; horses whinnied and snorted; dogs barked; a handbell clanged and clanged - and Branwell whisked me through it all in seconds, the stench of sewage and sickness and cooked meat and rotten fruit and unwashed bodies so strong I could taste it.

“Hang on, where are we going?” I asked when we’d slowed to a trot and the sounds of the street weren’t so loud.

“Refreshments!”

“Eh?”

“A jar of cheering sweetness, my dear. Your face resembles the sad arse of a sow due for the slaughterhouse. O wretched maid of long torment, your smile would set my heart content. But woe is you and woe is me, diddly dum and fiddly fee. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Shut up, div. Tell me where we’re going.”

“There!”

And he pointed to the inn a few steps ahead of us.

“I’m not going in.” My heart was thumping.

“Yes, you are!”

And he pulled me to the door, kicked it open and dragged me inside.

It was so dull and smokey in there I had to blink loads of times before I could see. The room was small and dingy; brown walls, thick sawdust on the floor. A man with massive, black mutton chop whiskers stood behind the bar. Just two other people were there, an old man sitting in one corner of the bench seat that ran across the back wall and down one side of the room, and a boy collecting glasses from the tables.

“Dawson! Two jars!” Branwell shouted, though we couldn’t have been six feet away from the bar. He led me to a table next to the only window in the room but the panes of  glass were so thick I couldn’t see out.

“Sit, sit!” Branwell gestured at the bench with a grand sweep of his arm. He sat down next to me, took his little box of snuff from his coat pocket, opened it and offered it to me.

I shook my head, “Eeew, no thanks.”

He took a big pinch and sniffed it up one nostril then the other. Quick as you like, he whipped out his hanky and started sneezing into it. “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

He laughed. “No worse than many things.”

The boy brought the drinks to us on a tray, two great tankards of beer. It tasted so strong I had to sip it. Branwell downed half of his in one go.

“What are we doing here, Branwell?”

“Being merry! Sup your porter and cheer up. Have you eaten yet? I am ravenous, starved, I could eat a scabby dog. Dawson!”

“Aye, sir?”

“What’s cooking?”

“Mutton, sir. Broth.”

“Two plates, then. And bread, but only if it is warm. I want none of your mould at my table.”

“Aye, sir.”

The broth was lovely, full of big chunks of fresh meat and veg. The bread was even lovelier, soft and springy and warm. I sneaked a handful of Cumberland sausages out of my rucksack and passed a couple to Branwell. I put mine in a slice of bread and had the best Cumberland sausage sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.

“How’s little Emily today?” I asked when we’d finished eating.

“Still weak. Although your medicine appears to have done the trick. She was up and about this morning, at her desk rummaging through papers. Charlotte scolded her.” He rolled his eyes, sucked in his cheeks, jumped out of his seat and stood in front of the table, his hands clasped together in front of him - “Sister, sister, what ARE you thinking? Shoo, shoo, back to bed!”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He sounded just like her. “She’s not that bad, is she?”

He sat down. “At times she is a terrible harridan, Dotty. Terrible. There are certain particulars that should be kept within the family but quite honestly, I am at my wits end with her antics.”

“Why, what has she done?”

“She burnt many of my writings. Onto the fire, cast into the flames as though they were words infernal, penned by the Devil himself.”

What could I say to that? I knew she’d done some burning - after little Emily died she burnt loads of her poems and edited loads of others (little Emily told me), but I didn’t know she’d burnt Branwell’s stuff too. Before I could think what to say he said,

“They take me for a fool. The Great Published Brotherhood of Whispering Bells. They think I am blind to their secret.”

“What secret?”

He picked up his tankard but he’d emptied it. He banged it down on the table. “Published! They are published and yet they lie to me that they are not, and they continue in their lies day after day. I am not to be told their news for fear it will send me far into a mad wretchedness of mental agonies from which I shall not return.”

I stayed silent. So did he, after he’d shouted for the boy to bring him a refill. I took my Nokia Hard Bastard out to see what time it was but it wouldn’t turn on properly, no signal.

After a while he let out a big sigh. He sat up straight and turned to me.

“Accept my heartfelt apologies, Dotty, my friend. I am a ranting dolt, an angered berk who should know better. I promise I shall not allow our day to be further marred by talk or thoughts of my own grievances when my intentions are to bring a smidge of light and happiness to us both. We, the soul-sick, mired in woe…”

“Shut up, you rhyming twat.” I gave him a punch on the arm.

“Are you ready to move on to the next stage of our adventure?” he asked.

“What is it?”

He smiled, a great big beamy smile, and then he tapped me on the nose with his finger. “Wait and see. Wait and see.”

 

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)

 

Moody Monday – Can I Borrow Your Teleporter, Please?

 

After a wild weekend of pelting rainy rain and cold windy wind, the sun is shining, the temperature is up a bit and this morning feels like Spring. And I want to go and see my MEMORIAL BENCH

(CLICK HERE FOR MEMORIAL BENCH POST)

but I can’t because there’s no one to take me.

What I need, more than anyone in the history of the world has ever ever needed anything, is a TELEPORTER. Do any of you have one I can borrow? Please? It doesn’t have to be a fancy one with loads of dials and knobs and bells and whistles, all I want it to do is WHOOOOSH me up to my MEMORIAL BENCH and take me back home again when I get cold.

I WANT TO GO OUT

but to go out means PEOPLE and to go out with the aim of getting to my MEMORIAL BENCH where there are NO PEOPLE I’d have to encounter LOTS OF PEOPLE and I can’t do that because I have PEOPLE PHOBIA and then I’d have to get home again from my MEMORIAL BENCH where there are NO PEOPLE which means encountering LOTS OF PEOPLE once again, so it’s not just ONCE I’d have to encounter LOTS OF PEOPLE, it’s TWICE.

TELEPORTER.

Can I borrow it?

Or an INVISIBILITY CLOAK?

Like I’ve said before, the only person I know with an INVISIBILITY CLOAK is Harry Potter and I’m STILL writing and writing to the SCROOGEY LITTLE SCROTE but he won’t reply to my emails. WHY? He doesn’t NEED his INVISIBILITY CLOAK any more, why won’t he let me have it? That’s what being a fucking child celebrity brat has done for him, gone straight to his HEAD and given him DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR like he’s the GODKING OF ALL FILMS AND OF THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD when really he couldn’t act his way out of a soggy paper bag. DICKHEAD.

So can I borrow your TELEPORTER, please?

I won’t break it. I’ll look after it.

I’ll make you a HEAP of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.

And I’ll let you have ANYTHING YOU WANT FROM ANY OF MY COLLECTIONS (except my books).

AND you’ll be the FIRST and ONLY person in Bloggyland to SEE WHAT I LOOK LIKE and to COME INSIDE MY HOUSE where you can wait for me to come back and if you get bored you could have a little flick round with the duster to keep you occupied.

PLEASE?

PRETTY PLEASE?

PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT?

PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT AND A CHERRY ON TOP?

 

The Three Red Bins Of Blogging Award (The Best Award I’ve Made Today)

 

I’ve been bored out of my skull today waiting for the universe to die so I’ve made a new award AND IT’S A NICE AWARD because I thought I’d better be nice for a change in case there IS a god.

This is my new award

 

See how nice I’ve been? I think I’ve been EXCEPTIONALLY NICE, nice enough to get me into HEAVEN if there IS a god.

There are two requirements to having this award -

1 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND THEN PRESS LIKE

2 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND ADD YOUR BLOG

 

If you’ve already done these two things you are BRILLIANT and I award you my new award which is a very, very classy award, if I do say so myself. If you haven’t already done these two things GO AND DO THEM.

When (notice I’m not saying ‘if’) you put it on your own site, you can set your own conditions to manipulate your readers into doing what you want them to do.  

Go forth, my acolytes, and continue being brilliant.

 

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.

 

Why Have Only A Few Of You Added To My New Collection?

 

It’s not fair – WordPress forced me into starting a new collection of Likes on my Notes From A She-Hermit page and only 19 people have contributed to it so far. I don’t care about the other pages and posts, you can never, ever click another Like again if you don’t want, JUST GO AND CLICK THAT ONE.

 

THIS IS A LINK TO THE PAGE I WOULD LIKE YOU TO LIKE, PLEASE 

or I’ll have a MASSIVE panic attack and it’ll be ALL YOUR FAULT

Yes I’m begging – what of it? There’s nothing wrong with begging if begging helps you to COLLECT THINGS.

And now I’m boasting and THANKING YOU FOR LOOKING AT MY BLOG A LOT – it’s just passed 20,000 views.

 

P.S. I’ve solved my elbow problem – I’m wearing protective bike pads and my thick leather motorbike jacket and I’ve got my Shoei crash helmet on in case my elbows get through the pads and the jacket – so now I can go to bed tonight and when I do I’m going to tie a pillow round each elbow to be on the safe side.

 

Look, No Hands – A Post Written By My Elbows

 

I’m going to type today’s post with my elbows because my fingers don’t have anything to say.

 

vria,g aas  is rjugkdouw8jgt476js9yusnm lk s   v awimfqp ufat8u44q90JINIO8Y6RR4EWEFCD  GJN [P[P;LLOI MUO

 

Nope, elbows don’t work.

My laptop doesn’t like it - it won’t stop shouting at me in it’s pingy little laptop voice.

Right elbow knocked me back a page and I had to try again

then one of them brought up my Favourites list

then a big sound options box thing came up and I don’t know what the fuck it was but it looked complicated

then I gave up.

 

 

Ah — wait a minute – look, look – it worked, my elbows wrote something.

ufat8

a message from my elbows

the first ever known message from elbows

like the first communication from aliens

this is a sign.

I don’t know what it’s a sign OF but it’s a sign.

 

ufat8

 

u = me

fat = fat

8 = a picture of what my elbows think I look like

 

oh

 

 

OH

 

 

MY ELBOWS ARE BULLYING ME

THEY HATE ME

THEY WANT TO KILL ME

THE POINTY FUCKERS ARE PLOTTING

 

what are they plotting?

 

what?

 

i don’t know but i bet if they could reach my eyes they’d poke and poke at them and try to poke them out like my eyelashes do when they’re trying to kill me

i cut my eyelashes off

can i cut my elbows off?

how?

i can’t cut them off, can i?

i could do ONE but if i did ONE i’d leave myself defenceless against THE OTHER ONE.

 

 

 

what do i do, what do i do?

 

 

 

i know

 

i’m going to strap them to my knees

my knees are my friends

they’ve NEVER tried to kill me

they’ve never bullied me

they’ve never called me names

they’ve never tried to poke my eyes out

or strangle me

or suffocate me

or anything

my knees will SAVE ME

 

right, i’m going to strap them now

 

 

 

 

haha   elbows

try an kill me now bastards

you can;t can you

 

 

i have to go its hard to type

 

 

Dotty Does Some Dreaded F*cking Form Filling

 

I’ve spent today filling in a FORM that should have been filled in weeks ago, a fucking nasty FORM with BIG spaces to write in and little boxes to tick and SHITEY illogical questions to answer.

When it first arrived I opened it, not realising it was a FORM. I read the letter that came with it then I stuffed it all back in the envelope and propped it up on the worktop so I wouldn’t forget about it completely (I couldn’t, it’s important or I’d have binned the thing). And for all these weeks it’s been THERE, waiting for me, whispering ‘fill me in, fill me in,’ watching me when I tried to sneak past it on tiptoe or when I got down on all fours and crawled below it’s line of sight. When I tried to go to sleep at night I could feel the EVIL emanating from it – I AM HERE AND I WON’T GO AWAY UNTIL YOU FILL ME IN - and for the last two days I haven’t been in the kitchen at all and I’m fucking STARVING and the DUE DATE that the form has to be returned by is VERY DUE so this morning I went into my kitchen with a notebook and pen and I grabbed the envelope and opened it and took out the FORM and then I laid the FORM on the table next to the notebook and pen and then I made a MASSIVE pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches for STRENGTH and ENDURANCE and then I made another cup of coffee and then I went for a wee and then I couldn’t avoid the FORM any more so I sat down and got started on the fucker.

After filling in my name and address and shite, one of the first things it asked me was

‘Do you need an interpreter?’

and I was SO TEMPTED to put

YES

and then when it asked in what language, I wanted to put

IN MY OWN LANGUAGE WHICH IS CALLED DOTTISH

and I wanted to write that if they wouldn’t provide me with a Dottish interpreter I’d SUE THEIR BOLLOCKS OFF because that’s just SHEER, BLATANT DISCRIMINATION.

and so what if there’s only one person in the world who speaks Dottish and I’M that person, PAY ME £70.00 per hour and I’ll translate for myself, you fucking imbeciles.

 

I don’t like FORMS. They’re nasty.

I’ve finished it now though and it’s all ready to post.

Thank fuck.

 

 

 

Help! Why Has The Like Button Suddenly Appeared On My Pages?

 

I’ve never had a Like button on my pages and no one else has either and I probably wouldn’t have noticed WordPress have added one if I hadn’t seen in my notifications that someone pressed Like on my title page which is called

**************** (and a few more)

A Like button on my pages is fine, it doesn’t bother me, EXCEPT on my title page – I disabled comments and shares on that page to keep it as a clean title page so does anyone know how to disable Likes on just the ONE page without disabling them altogether, please? I can’t find an option for it in the editing thingy.

 

Dead Ex-Simon – The Mental Cruelty He Inflicted On Dotty (Part 3a)

his actions “…reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” — Judge Hackisnackersoff

 

The above quote is a dead-on description of my dead husband, ex-Simon. He could be a HEARTLESS, VICIOUS, SADISTIC, MONSTEROUS MONSTER when he wanted to be, a SICK, TWISTED APPLIER OF MENTAL CRUELTY to me, your little Dotty. Here’s a list of a few of the things he did – I can’t tell you all of them, we’d be here all week and some things were too horrendously cruel for me to speak about yet, too painful for me to even THINK about without bringing on a series of major panic attacks, for example WHAT HE USED TO DO TO MY CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES.

 

THE TELLY

Ex-Simon was a remote control control freak, if it wasn’t where he put it last he went ballistic and paddied around like a two year old until he found it. He wanted complete control of the telly and that might have been okay if he’d watched PROPER PROGRAMMES like soaps and films and crime things and costume dramas, and proper documentaries about gypsies and dead sovereigns and that  dirty diseases programme with the doctors and the people who’ve had a nasty EMBARRASSING thing wrong with them for years but they’ve been too EMBARRASSED to talk to their own doctor or tell anyone about it so they GO ON TELLY AND SHOW THE NASTY THING TO THE NATION – what’s that all about, eh? 

Anyway, a female can put up with WAR PROGRAMMES for only so long before the violence gets to her and she batters the telly screen in with a hammer. When we went to buy a new one, ex-Simon wanted to get one with Sky or Branson added on but I put my foot down and said NO because I’ve never seen the point in having FIFTY MILLION TELLY CHANNELS when you can only watch one at a time, or with a twin thingy Freeview you can record two channels and watch one but that’s still only THREE CHANNELS at a time – and when do people WATCH IT ALL? Do all these subscribers get 10 extra hours in the day that the rest of us don’t get so they can get their money’s worth of telly? Because it costs a fucking bomb to subscribe to them, I know because they keep sending me shitemail to get me to sign up – BUT I WON’T because I’M BOYCOTTING THEM and the reason I’M BOYCOTTING THEM is because they THIEVE AWAY ALL THE GOOD TELLY PROGRAMMES after we’ve had one or two series’ on ITV or Channel 4 and we’ve got to like them and want to watch the next series but BOSH along comes Sky or Branson with their big bags of dosh and we don’t get to see what happened next —

Dexter

Criminal Minds

The Walking Dead

Medium

are just 4 of the programmes they’ve THIEVED. So I’ll NEVER EVER sign up and give them loads of money, what I do is I WAIT UNTIL THE DVD BOXSET IS CHEAP and then I buy it and KEEP IT and Sky and Branson and whoever else can FUCK OFF.

 

 

BREAD

At the same time as ex-Simon decided to become a MINIMAL, he also decided to become a health freak. He wouldn’t let me buy WHITE BREAD. He wouldn’t even let me buy BROWN BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD and not just NORMAL WHOLEMEAL BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD WITH ADDED BITS OF SHITE IN IT like sunflower seeds and poppy seeds (not opium poppy seeds) and sawdust chunks and the bits got stuck in my teeth after I’d eaten it and I had to slash-floss like fuck to get them out again because normal flossing just MOVED THE BITS to a different position.

 

 

FEET

Even writing about this is making me cringe and shudder and squirm and feel very, very sick. I HATE  feet, they’re nasty and disgusting and ugly and germy and smelly and diseasey and uuuuuurrrrgggghhhhh, I feel sick

I can’t do this one, I’m gipping too much

he never wore socks in  bed, the evil fucker

AND THERE’S WORSE

no, I can’t do it

I’ll have to go, I need a BIG swig of laudanum to take away the nausea.

Just imagine the absolute worst things to do with feet and that’s what he did.

UUUUURRRGGGGHHHHHHH

Make Your Own Funny Award And I’ll Have It, I’m An Award Slut Now

 

I’ve made a new page for funny awards that people HAVE MADE BY THEMSELVES.

Why not have a go at making one? If I can do it, anyone can.

DOTTY AWARDS

 

Dead Husband Ex-Simon Garottey (Part 2)

 

This blogging lark is quite cathartic, isn’t it? Writing about the shite I can’t talk to anyone else about is having a good effect on me, it’s making me reflect and it’s changing how I feel about certain things. For example, remorse.

Before I say anything else, I’m going to copy and paste a paragraph from the post I wrote on Valentine’s Day to save you the bother of having to click on a link (which you wouldn’t do anyway, so really I’m just making you read the bit I want you to read). This is the paragraph –

 

So today is the 3rd anniversary of THE DAY I KILLED SIMON. You might be wondering why I’m not banged up in the clinky (I know all the prison jargon, I watch LAW & ORDER UK). Well I DID go to prison but only while I was waiting for the trial and my prison wasn’t a general prison it was a sort of prison for the criminally insane. But I AM NOT CRIMINALLY INSANE and that was proved when JUDGE HACKISNACKERSOFF threw the case out on the very first day when she heard how Simon bought me A HOOVER for Valentine’s Day. NO card, NO chocolates, NO flowers – in her speech Judge Hackisnackersoff said his actions “reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” She also said “The deceased deserved everything he got.” So here I am, and it’s all thanks to Judge Hackisnackersoff that I have my darling little blog at all.

 

So now you’ve read that bit you know I was acquitted of all charges by the lovely Judge Hackisnackersoff. But what I DIDN’T mention in that paragraph is the question she asked me JUST BEFORE she acquitted me – she said

“Are you remorseful?”

And I said ‘Yes, Judge Hackisnackersoff, I AM remorseful.’

And she believed me - because I was TELLING THE TRUTH.

Yes, I WAS remorseful about killing ex-Simon. Here’s a list of why –

 

1 — My nice curtains got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away.

2 — My nice cushion covers got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away (but luckily my sofa didn’t, it’s a leather oxblood Chesterfield and all it needed was a wash and a wipe).

3 — My good carpet got ruined with blood stains and I haven’t been able to afford to replace it.

4 — Dibble took all my guns away - (I’m okay now, Scotty gave me his old sniper rifle and another little present and I’m building an impressive collection of other protective weapons — oh, that reminds me, WHY HAVE YOU STOPPED DONATING TO MY CANNON FUND?)

5 — Errmm. Hmmm. Nope, I can’t remember the fifth reason.

 

So yes, I WAS full of remorse for what I did, how could I not be, if I didn’t feel remorse I’d be a heartless psychopath, something I’ve always wished to be because heartless psychopaths don’t give two diddly fucks about ANYTHING. But what I’ve now realised is the remorse I was full of was the WRONG REMORSE, I was remorseful for the WRONG REASONS, I was remorseful about the WRONG THINGS. My reasons were selfish, ALL ABOUT ME, not about ex-Simon who should have been taken into account because he was the one who got killed.

So I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve revised my reasons for being remorseful to include ex-Simon. Here’s a list of THE NEW REASONS WHY I AM REMORSEFUL -

 

1 — Cleaning. NO ONE cleaned the house like ex-Simon did, NO ONE, and it’s starting to get manky again – Scotty and Lottie obviously didn’t do it properly last week, the clatty fuckers.

2 — The way ex-Simon died. If I hadn’t acted on impulse, if I’d just taken a few minutes to stop and think about it, I could have been more INVENTIVE IN MY METHOD of killing him – there are SO many other ways I could have done it that would have been less BASIC and CRUDE than shooting him in the face, cleverer, more thoughtful ways. Yes, I think this is what I’m MOST remorseful about. Poor ex-Simon, even though he deserved to die (as Judge Hackisnackersoff said) I’m now thinking he deserved a BETTER way to die.

Hang on, was that PITY FOR EX-SIMON I just felt?

No, never mind, it’s gone, I don’t know what it was.

Perhaps it WAS pity. That’s a new one, if it was.

 

So there you have it, writing my blog is changing me for the better.

Oh, if you want to know what happened  on the day I killed him you can read the statement I gave to Dibble by clicking on this link –

A Statement From The Accused

 

 

A Boring Post About My Boring Dead Husband, Boring Ex-Simon Garottey (Part 1)

 

Seeing as I’m still having trouble thinking of what to write because nothing happens to me because I CAN’T GO OUT, and seeing as little Emily is still recovering from the Sickness so she hasn’t been able to come and see me, and seeing as Branwell talks a load of shite when he does stay to talk to me, and seeing as Lottie is too busy, busy, busy to talk to me in the first place, and seeing as THE BERSERKERS have been told to stop ringing me up for bedtime stories because Lottie’s been whingeing about the phone bill, and seeing as there’s only SO many times I can stick a poem up and pretend to myself I’ve written a proper post, I thought that today I’ll write about something I’ve been avoiding writing about – my dead husband, ex-Simon.

I’ll apologise in advance for how BORING this post will be – it can’t be anything BUT boring because ex-Simon was boring, he was VERY VERY boring, he was the most boringest bastard ever to have been boring, he could have made every boring bastard in every boring chapter of THE BORING CLUB OF BORING BASTARDS die of boredom.

He didn’t SEEM boring for the first couple of years of knowing him. Yes, he liked CLEANING but any woman with any sense in her head would skip down the aisle to marry a man who liked cleaning, wouldn’t they – I didn’t have to lift a finger, he cleaned ALL THE HOUSE, everything, he kept the place LOVELY and SPARKLY and HYGIENIC which was brilliant for the most part except when he tried to ban me from smoking in the house because he said I was turning the ceiling and walls beige and making all my books yellow and why didn’t I GET RID OF SOME OF MY BOOKS?

You can imagine what I said to that. See, another problem with ex-Simon was he decided, after 2 years of marriage, to become a MINIMALIST – actually, being a MINIMALIST isn’t another problem, it’s the SAME problem as being a BORING BASTARD because who in their right mind wants to live in NOTHING? I’ve never understood MINIMALISM – human beings are ANIMALS not MINIMALS and how do animals live? They live in cosy little nests and burrows and dens and holes and hollows and other snug places, don’t they? Except fish (and other water creatures) who don’t have the bricks or the fingers to build themselves a proper home so they only have vast amounts of open water to live in – BUT THEY DON’T ONLY HAVE VAST AMOUNTS OF OPEN WATER TO LIVE IN, they have the BOTTOM OF THE WATER to live in and that’s what they do, they sleep in a bed of cosy grit and silt and pebbles with little (or BIG) rocks for walls to keep the BIG FISH and other BIG WATER CREATURES away from them because if they went to sleep in their vast amounts of open water they’d soon be EATEN by the BIG FISH and the other BIG WATER CREATURES. And it’s the same for human beings, we need THINGS AROUND US for protection because if you’re a MINIMAL and your house has fuck all in it, WHERE DO YOU HIDE WHEN THE PSYCHO COMES TO GET YOU? 

Wanting to become a MINIMALIST was the first real indication of how much of a boring bastard ex-Simon would become before I finally sent him to sleep with the fishes (SLEEP WITH THE FISHES!! HA HA HA HA – get it?) I did try to compromise with him (I told him he could keep the little downstairs toilet collection-free) because I still loved him then (though, on reflection, him telling me to get rid of my books is what started the slow swing from love to HATE). I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to get rid of my books when he had a COLLECTION OF STAMPS that he was meticulous about. Yes, stamps are the boringest item to collect but the fact that he was a COLLECTOR wasn’t boring even though the thing he collected was. But (again, on reflection) maybe at the beginning I shouldn’t have been blinded by him BEING A COLLECTOR, I should have focused more on the boringness of WHAT he collected. Ah, Hindsight, you fucker, why are you never there when I need you?

 

I’ll tell you a bit more about ex-Simon later, the thought of having to get rid of my books is bringing on a panic attack and I need my beta-blockers and a little swig of  laudanum.

 

 

 

Oops, I Did It Again

 

Don’t get too excited, Britney Spears hasn’t hacked into my blog - it’s still me, your little Dotty, but once again I haven’t written a post because nothing’s happened. This is a side effect of Hermititis and People Phobia, most of the time it’s too boring for words and today is one of those times. I can’t think of anything to write about and if I could it would be just as boring as the twaddle I’m writing now, the hackneyed old cliched pile of shite about not having anything to write about.

This is one of the downsides of just sitting down to write and pressing publish when I’ve finished – I never have any back-up posts, in fact the idea of back-up posts hadn’t entered my head until I saw it mentioned in someone’s blog a few weeks ago, then I noticed that lots of people do it – but how can I do back-up posts when I can’t even think of ONE?

 

AAAAAAARRRGGGGHHH!!

No it didn’t work. I thought an idea might fly out with the scream.

 

the cat sat on the mat – the cat sat on the mat (advice from Dodie Smith)

Nope, nothing.

 

Except — my face towel was a bit rough this morning, I’ll have to use more fabric conditioner next time I do the washing.

 

I should have just wrote another absence note.

 

Oh-oh-oh – I did do something, I had a tidy up of my blog pages and put things into lists and made it neater. I did it this morning when I was trying to think of a post. Did anyone notice? No, I didn’t think so.

 

I should just shut up, shouldn’t I?

 

The Weather Forecast For The North Of Dottyland

 

Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain

and rain again.

Rain is a fucking pain.

Not that I go out in the rain, I don’t, because I CAN’T GO OUT but the rain makes too much NOISE battering on my windows. And there’s no sunshine or blueness, there’s only a BIG GLOOMY SKY FILLED WITH RAINCLOUDS.

But I suppose I should be grateful because at least our Northern rain is PROPER RAIN, it comes down fast and hard in bucket-loads, not like Southern rain which is SOFT and PIDDLY and PISSY just like the Southerners it falls on. And don’t any of you Southerners start moaning at me, because I know what you’re all up to, I know YOU WANT TO STEAL OUR RAIN.

You want to STEAL OUR RAIN because YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANY OF YOUR OWN. You want to STEAL OUR RAIN and have it piped all the way down the country into your big soft houses so you can water your big soft lawns and wash your big posh cars and leave US without any to drink. Well you can PISS OFF, it’s OUR RAIN, haven’t you got enough of everything else down there – you’ve got all the jobs, all the money, all the EVERYTHING and all we have is OUR RAIN, the same rain you LAUGH AT and COMPLAIN ABOUT if you’re ever forced into coming UP NORTH.

So no, you CAN’T HAVE IT.

Why don’t you ask your daytrip chunnel pals, France, if you can have some of their rain? I bet I know what they’ll say – NON with some French swear words to follow but I don’t know any French swear words apart from ‘casse toi’ which might be appropriate but just as likely it’s not. Oh, I also know ‘merde’ so they might say NON, CASSE TOI, TU TÊTE DE MERDE (that sounds good).

It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.

There’s so much rain coming down, rain-rain, gallons and gallons of it, and the grass looks so GREEN and LUSH.  

In fact we have so MUCH rain that we might just have to throw some of it away, into the NORTH SEA, because we wouldn’t want to spill a drop or two and have it roll DOWN SOUTH.

I might stick the hosepipe out of the window to water my flowers just in case the rain stops for a second or two and they get thirsty.

Rain, rain, happy rain.

And it’s going to rain ALL WEEK.

I’m off to have a bath. And a shower.

 

Don’t Die Of Shock Everyone – Dotty Has Accepted An Award

It’s the GOLDEN SHATNER AWARD 

and I’ve accepted it from VICTOR TOOKES

whose blog you can find HERE,

because I like William Shatner, he’s stupid, and all you have to do is give the award

 to four people. But I still can’t choose, there’s LOADS OF YOU I want to give it to.

So TAKE IT

EVERYBODY

I SPECIFICALLY AWARD IT TO ALL OF YOU

not like my own award

The Dotty Headbanger Award For Being Mental & Loving It

which you award to yourself - 

this time I’m specifically choosing to specifically award

EVERYBODY this lovely award and if I could be bothered I’d do

links to all your blogs but I can’t be bothered so I won’t.

 

 

P.S. It has a big, better picture for those of you who can do big pictures without shagging up

your blog (not me, I fuck it all up with pictures) and you’ll find the big picture

at Victor’s blog if you click on the link I put in at the top.

 

P.P.S.  They got me in the end.

 

P.P.P.S.  No more and never again.

 

 

 

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 Returns From Playing Nursey

 

I’m back. Sorry I couldn’t leave an absence note, I didn’t have time. Little Emily was taken ill and it was all a bit of a rush, Branwell came to get me in his carriage and I only had a few minutes to pack my case. Charlotte and Anne were away visiting which only left me and my debatable skills but I must have done something right, she’s much better now.

Panic attacks – I had many. Meltdown – I almost had one but I didn’t, I raided Branwell’s laudanum cupboard instead (he didn’t mind).

You wouldn’t think so but the worse thing was that the Victorians are noisy sods, they love banging and clanging their metal in the mills and the forges, even the kids play with big metal hoops – and those fucking horseshoes on the cobbles – my ears are driving me loopy after all that, I need a lot of quiet so if anyone comes in can you please keep the volume down. Thank you.

 

 

THREE ANSWERS TO MY COMPETITION? THREE?

 

Why have I only had three answers to my competition? Why have 74 people looked at it and only THREE PEOPLE bothered to do an answer? Why? Why? Why? Do you HATE ME that much? Am I so horrible and nasty to you that you don’t want to be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY?

 

These are the people who I LOVE MOST now –

DeeDee — whose answer is a Cumberland sausage wrapped in butcher paper

John (& Victor Tookes) — whose answer is Jean Luc Picard’s underwear

pmao — whose answer is himself (he said ‘me’, but if I wrote ‘me’ you’d think I meant ME)

 

IT’S NOT FAIR.

I even did a nice picture for you to look at.

You’ve all made me sad and upset and I’m crying and I’ve had two panic attacks writing this post and YOU HATE ME, EVERYBODY HATES ME and I need a lie down and a little sleep.

Goodnight, cruel, cruel people.

If blogs had shins you’d all kick the fuck out of mine.

YOU ALL HATE ME.

HATE HATE HATE

HATE.

 

This Post Is Not A Post, It’s A Competition Because I Have Another Thing To Write Today…

 

…but to keep you coming back to my blog so I still get loads of views,

and so I can get to 300 followers before La Popinjay does,

and so you don’t fuck off to some other blogger who talks to you more,

and so I can feel like I’m not ignoring you all (y’all) while I get on with ANOTHER THING

here’s a question —

 

What’s white and flies through the air faster than the speed of light?

 

RULES

There are two correct answers, either one of which I’ll accept.

If more than one of you get a correct answer I’ll do eeny-meeny-miney-mo to decide.

Or I might do ip-dip-dog-shit instead, it depends how I feel.

The winner will be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY tomorrow.

 

Here’s a picture to keep you entertained. I know everyone likes pictures and I know if I could put pictures in all my posts my views and my followers would be in the ZABILLIONS by now, but I can’t do it properly, it always goes wrong, I’ll NEVER be good with pictures and one day you’ll all go away to find blogs with pictures and this one of the SHOE-CAR has taken me over an hour of the time I was going to spend on ANOTHER THING so I hope you like it. 

 

 

This is a shoe but it's also a CAR!! Fucking amazing what they can do nowadays.
I want this SHOE-CAR. I want it.

 

 

Dotty Hermit Tip – How To Lie On The Floor Safely

 

Hello, fellow She-Hermits and Hermits. Today we’re going to talk about safety procedures for when you LIE ON THE FLOOR. I wonder if you’ve ever considered the DANGERS associated with lying on the floor, DANGERS that can MAIM or even KILL you, DANGERS that no one else will bother to tell you about because no one else gives two flying fucks about your lying on the floor habits. Well don’t worry, I’m here to help you and I’m writing this especially for YOU because I’m nice and kind like that.

So let’s get started.

 

POSITIONING – DANGERS OF THE FOETAL POSITION

Most floor-lying hermits prefer to lie in the FOETAL POSITION and most floor-lying hermits return again and again to THE SAME SPOT on the floor to lie in the FOETAL POSITION. We’ll discuss lying in THE SAME SPOT later - right now I’m concerned about THE HARM YOU ARE DOING TO YOUR SPINE.

SPINAL INJURY or BEING CRIPPLED FOR LIFE is a real and prevalent DANGER for hermits who choose to lie in the FOETAL POSITION for long periods of time. Your spine is supposed to be a STRAIGHT THING, evolution made the adult human spine straight in order to keep you UPRIGHT AND READY TO RUN AWAY - so how are you going to RUN AWAY if you can’t walk? YOU’RE NOT, you’ll be EATEN by lions or tigers or wolves or bears or hyenas or mad dogs or feral children or whatever else gets a sniff of you lying there, on the floor, in the FOETAL POSITION.

If you’re lucky and manage to escape being EATEN, the next time you lie on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION might be the last time you have a STRAIGHT BACK. The spine isn’t made of steel, it’s made of bone, and contrary to what most people believe about bone being hard and unbendable, BONE IS VERY BENDY and if you persist and persist in bending it into the FOETAL POSITION it will stay there and you’ll develop a pronounced HUMF and being a PEOPLE PHOBIC HERMIT is bad enough without being a PEOPLE PHOBIC HERMIT with a HUMFY-BACK.

Not only can the FOETAL POSITION give you a big HUMF, it can also lead to PARALYSIS OF EVERY PART OF YOUR BODY caused by SEVERED NERVES, so BEWARE and BE AWARE of any NUMBNESS or LOSS OF SENSATION because what might be happening is you are SEVERING YOUR NERVES and BECOMING PARALYSED but you won’t know this is happening until you want to get up to go for a wee or get a drink and you find you CAN’T GET UP BECAUSE YOU HAVE PARALYSED YOURSELF by lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION. If your legs are the limbs that become paralysed you should be okay because you’ll be able to use your arms to drag yourself across the floor to the phone, but if your arms are the limbs that become paralysed I’m afraid YOU’RE FUCKED because you won’t be able to drag yourself to the phone and even if you somehow managed to, how would you pick up the phone to ring for help?

Other DANGERS of lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION include -

BALD PATCHES  – if no air or light can get to one side of your head because it’s flat on the carpet then you shouldn’t worry about illness or disease when your hair starts to come out in clumps, your baldness is caused by lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION.

CARPET BURN – caused by getting down onto the floor or getting up off the floor too quickly. Also caused by writhing around on the floor in the throes of despair. Be careful not to get carpet burn on your knees or people will think things.

DELUSIONS OF DEATH which occur when you’ve been there for so long that when you try to move you don’t know if the stiffness of your body is due to JUST STIFFNESS or if you’re stiff like a plank because RIGOR MORTIS HAS SET IN and this results in you having to deal with DIBBLE and AMBULANCE and SORE JAGS IN THE ARSE when you ring them up to tell them you are DEAD.

 

OTHER DANGERS OF LYING ON THE FLOOR

SPIDERS. BIG HAIRY MEATY SPIDERS and other creepy crawlies. Included in the list of creepy crawlies (I’m not making a list, I can’t be arsed) are the microscopic creepy crawlies that live in your carpet. Fuck knows WHAT they are but it’s guaranteed they carry all types of dirty diseases and THEY WILL WALK ON YOUR FACE AND ENTER THE INSIDE OF YOUR BODY THROUGH YOUR ORIFICES.

DEHYDRATION – keep a bottle of water next to you

STARVATION – if you’ve got your bottle of water you’ll be okay because you can go without food longer than you can without water.

NEEDING A WEE – this one’s easy - GET UP AND GO FOR A WEE, STUPID. You’re not a fucking baby.

BECOMING USED TO ONE PARTICULAR SPOT ON THE FLOOR – we’re going to deal with this next -

 

 

BECOMING USED TO ONE PARTICULAR SPOT ON THE FLOOR

As stated above, most hermits return again and again to the same spot on the floor. This is just a bad habit that can take some time and effort to break but it’s worth it in the end, the benefits you’ll reap will ASTOUND you.

Whether it’s facing your sofa, the underneath of your coffee table, your bookcases, your sideboard or just a blank wall, EVERY hermit has a favourite spot on the floor they like to lie on. But did you know that CHANGING THE SPOT ON THE FLOOR THAT YOU LIE ON can be so beneficial and good for you that it can CURE YOU OF LYING ON THE FLOOR?

Yes, it can. Don’t believe me? Read on -

 

Hermits who lie on the floor do so for one of two reasons —

1  they are in the throes of despair

2  they are too apathetic to do anything else

 

It doesn’t matter WHY you’re still lying on the floor after I’ve taken the time and trouble to spell out all the DANGERS, the fact that you’re still there at all tells me you really, really need TO CHANGE YOUR SPOT.

Before we go any further I know many of you will only have THE ONE SPOT to lie in because your collections have sprawled all over the place or because you’re just a clatty tramp and you don’t clean your house. TIDYING UP will provide NEW SPOTS FOR LYING ON THE FLOOR so get on with it, do it NOW, this minute before you think about it, don’t read another word, go and MAKE SOME NEW SPACES.

Done? Okay.

Whether you’re apathetic or despairing, a NEW SPOT ON THE FLOOR will change your life. You won’t like it to begin with, no one likes CHANGE, but persevere and the benefits will soon become apparent.

Lying on the floor in a NEW SPOT will instantly give you a NEW VIEW and a NEW VIEW is the best thing you can have because it provides a DISTRACTION from the apathy or despair that put you on the floor in the first place. Who can remain in a state of OVERWHELMING APATHY when confronted with a 4 inch CLUMP OF DUST AND WEB under the sideboard that you’ve never noticed before? Who can remain in a state of ALL-CONSUMING DESPAIR whilst staring at the natural beauty of the wooden chair leg? A NEW SPOT will provide MOTIVATION and MENTAL STIMULATION and we’re on the road to BEING CURED.

After a few practices, each time in a NEW SPOT, if you STILL haven’t stopped lying on the floor in the FOETAL POSITION, try lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK. No hermit does this naturally or without distress because lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK makes you feel too EXPOSED and one benefit of lying in the FOETAL POSITION is you can’t see what’s coming for you, whether it’s a BIG HAIRY MEATY SPIDER or a BEAR. Also, lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK and LOOKING UP AT THE CEILING makes your room look MASSIVE LIKE THE WORLD and then you feel even more insignificant than you do already.

But for your own bodily safety, lying on the floor FLAT ON YOUR BACK is the best position to be in if you still insist on lying on the floor because it’s good for your back, it’s good for your posture, and it doesn’t cause HUMFS or PARALYSIS or DEATH BY RIGOR MORTIS.

 

 

I apologise for all the BIG SHOUTY WORDS I’ve used but hermits, you have to listen to me, if you won’t stop lying on the floor at least take PROPER PRECAUTIONS.

I hope these hermit tips help you.

Be safe, my hermits. Be well.

 

For One Night Only – Dotty On The Telly

 

I was on the telly last night for half an hour.

I wanted to know what it felt like to be my telly - sitting there in the corner for the whole of its life, unable to move, people staring at it for hours and hours on end and then it conks out and dies – I felt sorry for it, it must be a sad old life. And I wanted to see what my telly sees from where it’s sitting and I’ll tell you something, it’s given me a whole different view of my living room - it looks nice from up there, I saw my collections from different angles, I saw my bookcases from different angles, I saw my couch and chairs from different angles and I noticed what a good job Lottie and Scotty did when they cleaned everywhere – I actually saw THE CARPET

I had a bit of trouble getting up because of all my butterfly-stitched fork-stabs that are scabbing over nicely, thank you for asking (some of them pulled a bit and came open when the scab ripped off but I washed all the blood off when I got down). My telly is old and fat with a massive back, not one of those slim things that I don’t understand why they made in the first place because where do all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE live now? Is this how the telly companies have got rid of some of my favourite programmes, they’ve had a PROGRAMME POGROM and driven away all the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE like others did in THE HIGHLAND CLEARANCES and THE JEWISH PEOPLE CLEARANCES and all the other ethnic clearances that have taken place. EXCEPT NO ONE HAS SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THE LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE CLEARANCES. Why? WHY NOT? It’s not fair. Just because they’re LITTLE doesn’t mean they don’t have the same rights as everyone else. Just because they live inside our tellys doesn’t mean they’re not entitled to stay in their homes, to live their lives the way they want to with SPACE ENOUGH TO LIVE COMFORTABLY. All these horrible things go on in the world and no one says DICKY-FUCKING-BOO about them.

It made me cry last night when I was on my telly thinking about how they must be living now, so I got down and went to find my BIG FUCK-OFF SCREWDRIVER which was in my cutlery drawer so I got a fork as well and I used them both to prise the back off my telly to see if I could help the LITTLE TELLY PEOPLE but do you know what? THEY WEREN’T ANYWHERE TO BE SEEN. They’ve FUCKING DISAPPEARED and I know WHY they’ve disappeared, they’re so frightened, so HARASSED and PLAGUED and TORMENTED by their  CRUEL PERSECUTORS – and that means YOU, YES YOU WITH THE FUCKING SLIMLINE TELLY – that they’ve run away from my telly, their SANCTUARY, probably the ONLY SAFE PLACE FOR THEM IN BRITAIN.

I’m too upset to write any more. It’s heartbreaking.

I need my laudanum.

And a Cumberland sausage sandwich.

And a lie down.

FUCKING PERSECUTORS.

 

 

 

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