Little Emily stayed with me last night. We talked for hours about all sorts of family things, our fathers, our mothers, our brothers, our sister(s), and we talked about me being a she-hermit and what we could do to stop me being a she-hermit but we couldn’t come up with anything feasible that didn’t involve her punching me a lot. She did have one idea, that I should accompany her on her walks on the moors, which sounds lovely, I miss going for walks on the moors, but to get to the moors we’d have to go through the village and PEOPLE are in the village and PEOPLE won’t just mind their own fucking business and let others get on with theirs, they want to say HELLO. Why? Trot on, nosey fuckers. And if they say HELLO and you can’t say it back to them they give you evil stares and you KNOW they’ll be talking about you for weeks, ‘oooh, you know that snooty she-hermit, Dotty, she walked right past me the other day and completely blanked me ‘ and then you’re STUCK IN THE HOUSE AGAIN because how can you face them all when you know they’re talking about you?
We’ve decided I need an invisibility cloak like Harry Potter’s. Actually, we’ve decided the invisibility cloak I need IS Harry Potter’s, his old one, and we thought maybe now he’s living in The Woman In Black he might give me it if I ask him nicely- if you don’t ask you don’t get. I’ll do the letter when I’ve finished writing this post – and little Emily said she’ll help with the wording because saying DEAR HARRY POTTER, GIVE ME YOUR INVISIBILTY CLOAK SO I CAN GO OUT OR I’LL STICK YOUR MAGIC BROOMSTICK UP YOUR MAGIC ARSE, LOVE DOTTY XXX might be a bit too forceful for the dainty sensibilities of a Magician-turned-Actor and he might throw my letter away and with it my chance of getting the invisibility cloak. She said I have to be polite and grovelling and fawning, so basically I have to be a toadying, sycophantic creep – which begs the question, do I want the invisibility cloak badly enough to demean myself in words in order to get something from a BOY-MAN?
Errmmm, let me think —
NO. I FUCKING WELL DO NOT
because I’ve just had an idea, so I don’t have to.
I’m going to make my own burkha.
Oh yes, and I forgot to say – my toaster is shagged, little Emily tried to dig her slice of bread out with her knife and blew it up. Luckily she didn’t blow up with it or I’d be left here on my own again.