Little Emily – A Withering Shite (And Then Not)



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

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

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

UNTIL she called me a —







I can’t say it.







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




She called me a SUFFERING CLUCK.

And then she shouted at me —

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

Her eyes looked like big black shiny marbles.

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

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


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

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

‘How did you get them?’

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

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


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





Leave a comment


  1. I can’t wait to call someone a suffering cluck! I’ve already have the lucky person in mind.

    • Dear robin,
      Oh, that’s just cruel.
      Love Dotty xxx

      • Yup – Cruel is my middle name. Well – not really. It is Ann.

      • Dear Robin,
        I’d like Cruel as my middle name – Dotty Cruel Headbanger. And I’d like another middle name to follow Cruel and that would be Bitch.
        Love Dotty Cruel Bitch Headbanger xxx
        P.S. It has a ring to it, don’t you think?

  2. Dearest, Dotty Cruel Bitch Headbanger,

    Little Emily will leave and get back to you after tea today. I’m shocked at her behavior towards you; she has been nothing but gracious in her short stay across the pond. She deserves another Cumberland sausage sandwich when next you see her. If she’s hungry. Or not.


    • Dear Uncle,
      She’s a feisty little bugger when she wants to be. But we’ve made up now so everything’s fine again.
      Love Dotty xxx

  3. Dear Dotty,

    Could you please ask Miss Emily if she would kindly come round to my place and do some of her motivational therapy on me too? I really wish someone would call me out on being a suffering cluck. The best I get is “Hootie,” which I don’t like very much, but I put up with it since being given a nickname is supposedly a sign that people like you (I have a hard time believing that; it sounds like an apology for just more name-calling). But being called a name outright like that can really grab a person’s attention and make them go, “Huh. Maybe I had best look into changing my ways.” I have to say that Bikram (yes, Bikram, the yogi-to-the-stars with the top knot and the tiny shorts and the biggest swimming pool in Beverly Hills) is really my go-to for getting called out on crap. He says things like, “Chicken shit salad with cockroach dressing.” That is when you know that he cares about you, and knows you can do better.


    PS: I do not live in Beverly Hills.

    • Dear owl,

      Little Emily is knackered, she spent the day with Uncle in his attic and the balloon trips over the sea and back made her queasy. But she said she quite fancies a trip to Beverly Hills even if you don’t live there – she wants you to take her and show her all the posh shops (I’d be careful if I were you, she’ll have you in the Chanel shop maxing out your credit card to buy gifts for her).

      I don’t know who Bikram is and I can’t be arsed asking Google, it’s 01.41 am. Why does he say ‘Chicken shit salad with cockroach dressing?’
      Love Dotty xxx

  4. the big beige blob of apathy part is some good writing… I will read more tomorrow. Gotta make dinner…


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