Dotty and Lottie (But Not For Long)

 

 

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

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

‘Hold your horses, will you. They…’

‘TELL ME WHERE THEY ARE!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lottie did. 

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

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

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

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

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

‘No.’

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

‘Do you want toast instead?’

‘I don’t want anything.’

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

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

‘Yep.’

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

‘She didn’t mention a teddy.’

‘Oh.’

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

‘Wayne’s seeing someone else.’

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

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

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

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

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

Oops.

‘What do you mean?’

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

That did it.

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

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

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

‘Don’t do that, it hurts my ears.’

‘Fuck off, Dotty.’

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

‘Cumberland sausages for breakfast!’ I said.

‘We’re going.’

‘No mummy,’

‘Yes!’

‘I’ve made their breakfast.’

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

‘Want to thtay here.’

‘PUT YOUR COAT ON.’

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

‘You two, give me my Cumberland sausages.’

‘Can we eat ours?’

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

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

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

Neither of them answered. Oh-oh.

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

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

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

‘Sorry.’

‘Thorry.’

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

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

‘Tell me a thtory. Winnie-the-Pooh.’

‘I want Cinderella.’

Fuck. I can’t remember stories.

‘Please.’

‘Pleathe.’

‘Howsabout I make up a story?’

‘Yeth. Make up Winnie-the-Pooh.’

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

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

‘Yay, Winnie!’

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

‘You thweared, you thweared!!’

‘… his name was WINNIE-THE-SHITE… ‘

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

They both nodded.

‘Goldiwockth’

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

‘No, Winnie-the-Thite, don’t eat it!’

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

‘What? What?’

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

‘YEEEUUURRGGGHHHHH!’

‘EEEEEWWWWWWWWW!

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

‘Come on, come on!’

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

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

Quietness. Stillness. Little breaths.

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

 

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG

DOTTY!

DOTTY!

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

‘What’s happened? What’s wrong?’

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

‘Is it Lottie? Tell me what’s…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did you smack them?’

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

And he walked out

and left me with THE BERSERKERS.

ALONE

WITH THE BERSERKERS

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

I am going to KILL Lottie for this.

 

 

Dotty Psychotty – Payback Begins

 

So.

So he lied to me. AGAIN. He promissed to abide by the RULES and he broke them almost immediatelly by doing his MISSPELLING MIND-TRICKS on me.

FUCKING BASTARD.

But i’m not going to let it get to me like last time. I’ going to play the lying wanker at his own game.

I was up all last night tryeing to think of what to do. One word wouldn’t stop pounding through my head, WHY? Why is he doing it to me? What does he have to gain from making me misspell myy words? All sorts of things came to me but they were all far-ffetched and ridiculos and I had to do a bit of trepanning to stop myself from thinking for a while so the paranoia wouldn’t take over and I wouldn’t have another series of panicc attackks.

Control.

Breathe.

And whn I’d calmed down enough to start thinking clearly again I realised what he’s REALLY doing. He’s using me as a conduit to send coded messages thrrough my blog. He’s CONTROLLING MY SPELLING – an extra S here, a missing O there, an extra D somewhere else – and who knows what secret message he’s spelling out to someone somewhere and that person IS READING MY LITTLE BLOG.

Is it YOU?

So what I’ve done is I’ve put MY OWN MISSPELLINGS inside this post to out-fox the fuckers and I’ve done MY OWN CODED MESSAGE too. So, READER, who ever you are, how do you like that then? And you, SCOTTY, YOU JUDAS FUCKWIT, HAVEN’T YOU LEARNT YET THAT YOU CAN’T GET THE BETTER OF ME?

No one does in the end. And this is far from the end, it’s just beginning. 

 

 

 

Dotty’s Shitey Family – Another update

 

All is fine with the world today and all is fine with me and Scotty as long as he sticks to the RULES.

 

Rule 1 – I don’t want to hear any mention of Lottie, including her name, unless I specifically ask about her.

Rule 2 – Scotty has to stop using his MISSPELLING TRICKS on me.

Rule 3 – He has to promise never to read this little blog.

Rule 4 – He has to promise never to put me away.

Rule 5 – He has to promise to INFORM ME IMMEDIATELY if Lottie ever contacts him regarding ME.

Rule 6 – He has to promise he will never again ask me for bacon that is not accompanied by Cumberland sausages.

Rule 7 – He has to promise never to con me into getting rid of my collections.

Rule 8 – No more lies.

Rule 9 – No more tricks.

Rule 10 – He has to promise he won’t blame me if Interpol catch him because it was HIS OWN FAULT I BLABBED ON HIM.

Rule 11 – He won’t try to sue me if he needs CORRECTIVE SURGERY (and it does look as though he WILL need it – the finger is bent backwards at the knuckle nearest the nail).

Rule 12 – He won’t try to sue me for LOSS OF EARNINGS.

Rule 13 – He won’t blame me if his aim is off when he does go back to work.

Rule 14 – HE WILL START PAYING CHILD SUPPORT FOR ALL HIS CHILDREN (see Dotty’s Family Tree)

Rule 15 – He will never mention the new house in the middle of nowhere.

Rule 16 – He will cancel the tenancy agreement for the house in the middle of nowhere (I made him do the email while I stood behind him watching carefully).

Rule 17 –

Rule 18 –

Rule 19 –

Rule 20 –

The last 6 are left blank because I know I’ll think of more rules for him and I didn’t want him to think he’d got off easily becausse there were only 13.

I presented the rules to him when he came to the door. He read through them and agreed to them all. After I’d checked his bag (more about his bag in a minute) and frisked him and he’d stripped down to his undies for me to check for wires, I made us some coffee and a pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches and we sat at the kitchen table. He had the first sandwich down his neck in three seconds flat. He ate five before he wiped his mouth, had a gobful of coffee and told me he wasn’t keen on the food Lottie served him – STEW – but not a particular stew, just stew made with vegetables and STEWING MEAT. When he asked her if the meat was beef or pork she shrugged and said she didn’t know. He shuddered when he told me that every night he had to surreptitiously pick out the lumps of UNIDENTIFIED STEWING MEAT and hide them down the sides of his RIGGER BOOTS and he was successful in this until the eldest BERSERKER, Prissy, spotted what he was doing and blackmailed him into buying her a PRINCESS PORNY doll (they’re not really called Princess Porny, that’s just Scotty’s way of highlighting the unsavoury prevalence of unsuitably attired dolls on the market nowadays – he’s very moralistic when it comes to OTHER PEOPLE’S KIDS). Personally I don’t see anything wrong with STEWING MEAT. What you don’t know can’t hurt you, and who can afford to buy a bit of best beef just to stick in a stew anyway? Not me, and not Lottie either by the sounds of it.

When Scotty had finished telling me about the stew he opened his bag and pulled out a carrier bag full of CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES. Then he pulled out another carrier bag full of McCAIN’S CHIPPY CHIPS. Very sweet of him to bring me presents. But then he asked if he could put his bag UP IN HIS ROOM and I said what fucking room? and he started pleading and begging for me to let him stay, saying he couldn’t stand another night at Lottie’s, he was frightened THE BERSERKERS would kill him in his sleep, one of them had already broken the finger next to the trigger finger that I broke when she danced on his foot with her rollerblades on – he held the  new broken finger in the air and I must say the little sod did a good job on it, the one I broke was bent backwards but she had managed a SIDEWAYS AND DOWNWARDS BEND and I felt a sense of pride that she is MY niece.

I did feel a bit sorry for him but not enough to let him stay, not after last time. I don’t fully trust him yet and I can’t cope with having another person in my house with me all the time so no, I won’t let him stay but we agreed that he’ll come here every day for his dinner and stay all afternoon till he’s had his tea which means he’ll only have to eat breakfast at Lottie’s and as she doesn’t serve stew for breakfast he’s okay with the meal arrangements. He’s not so pleased about having to continue sleeping in the same house as THE BERSERKERS but tough titty, they’re his nieces too, he’ll just have to learn not to be scared of them and anyway, if his trigger finger has healed properly he’ll be back at work soon so he won’t be there for long (he said there’s a new job coming up in another MIDDLE EASTERN COUNTRY in the near future – a few governments have been in touch with him about his costs and expenses). So we’re all sorted again, brother and sister reunited and back on happy terms. All good.

I have to go and floss the Cumberland sausage bits out of my teeth now. If I’ve run out of floss I’ll just have to swill.

 

 

Dotty’s Shitey Family – An Update

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll let you know what happens.

 

A Short Note About A Note From JUDAS

 

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

This is what it says —

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

Dotty’s St Valentine’s Day Massacre

 

Well, what I can say? I was all ready to ring INTERPOL yesterday to grass up that JUDAS brother of mine, AFTER I’d blown his arse off with the new present he gave me. BUT I DIDN’T. And after everything that’s happened this week you’d think by now I’d be curled up in the corner blowing spit bubbles, but NO I AM NOT, I have been EMPOWERED and FORTIFIED and I’ve HAD A BATH and WASHED MY HAIR and I am like DOTTY THE WONDER WOMAN and all because of this darling little blog of mine. I LOVE MY BLOG. I LOVE IT, LOVE IT, LOVE IT. I’ve sent it a Valentine’s Day card and I gave it a big sloppy KISS. And my darling little blog LOVES ME – it’s given me EIGHTY FOLLOWERS and Jesus only had TWELVE FOLLOWERS in the early days and one of them turned ROGUE — so ha ha Jesus, who’s the DADDY now, eh? EH?

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.

Today I am ALL ABOUT LOVE so here is a list of –

 

THINGS I LOVE BEST TODAY

Cumberland sausages

My darling little blog

My brick

My other brick, the one that broke JUDAS’S TRIGGER FINGER

My EIGHTY followers in my darling little blog (hey Jesus — NEH NEH NEH-NEH NEH – I’ve got more followers than you. LOSER!)

McCain’s Chippy Chips

Diet Coke

My collections (which I won’t list individually because I love them all equally, but I will make an especial mention of my COLLECTED AMERICANS (see Dotty’s List Of Collected Americans) because they are PART OF MY DARLING LITTLE BLOG, combining two of the things I love best today.

Judge Hackisnackersoff

My CLEAN HAIR

Ian Somerhalder

 

Ermm, that’s it.

If anyone wants me today you’ll find me in A Bit Of Totty For Dotty where I’ll be looking at my pictures of my lovely Ian Somerhalder.

I hope you all have a beautiful, beautiful St Valentine’s Day.

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT – I got it wrong. I’ve only got SEVENTY NINE followers because the other one is ME. Also, did Jesus have TWELVE or THIRTEEN followers before Judas became a JUDAS? Hmm, they’ll ban me from the bible class if I ever go to a bible class which I won’t because I CAN’T GO OUT and if I could I wouldn’t go anyway because I used to live next door to a family of JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES and in the summer, when all the other kids were chasing the ice cream van and throwing each other in the paddling pool, the JEHOVAH’S WITNESS KIDS were sitting in their back garden DOING BIBLE STUDY.

AND the JEHOVAH’S WITNESSES tried to nick my garden but that’s another story for another time.

 

 

 

I Might Be Mental But I’m Not Stupid

 

You know that saying, Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you well it’s true, the fuckers ARE out to get me. I knew something was going on. But this time, instead of allowing the situation (and the bastards behind it) to overwhelm and control ME, I took Judith’s advice and I spoke to Scotty and here’s what I discovered –

He didn’t come to stay with me because he WANTED to. He came because LOTTIE ASKED HIM TO. He’s been ringing her daily from whatever foreign rathole he happens to be in. To check up on me. To spy on me. The only person I ever trusted not to.

LOTTIE got him to come here by telling him her version of what happened on THAT NIGHT. And his disgust and outrage at her behaviour, the disgust and outrage that seemed real to me (he called her all sorts of things including FAT, DEVIOUS, CONTROL FREAK, and SNEAKY – and I’m going to TELL HER WHAT HE SAID) had been false, a lie, an act put on for reasons I can’t begin to fathom.

He says the new house is real – but he hasn’t bought it like he implied, he’s renting it for 6 months TO SEE IF I LIKE IT. He said if I do like it he has all the arrangements in place to buy it for me. Lying bastard. If there IS a house he can stick it up his sanctimonious, lemon-sucking ARSEHOLE and let LOTTIE move in up there as well. She should feel right at home.

Oh, and he never did order a trepanning kit on the internet, he said he was trying to stop me from getting myself a new hand-drill. Unbelievable. It doesn’t matter though, I remember the internet website the trepanning kit was on so I’ll buy my own fucking trepanning kit. I’ll buy TWO TREPANNING KITS. Or THREE. Or FOUR. Or FIVE. Or SIX. I’ll buy as many TREPANNING KITS as I fucking well want. And I’ll buy another HAND-DRILL. I’ll buy a FUCKING PNEUMATIC DRILL if I decide I want to drill my head with one. Judith is right, NO ONE IS THE BOSS OF ME.

He got angry at one point and shouted at me. He’s never done that before, he is ALWAYS calm and collected, he’s one of those people who never lose their temper so you don’t know if they’re super-cool relaxed types or peaceful-jesus types or plain old psychopaths (I prefer psychopaths, you know where you are with them).

Then he shouted at me AGAIN — “we’re only trying to help you, Dotty, we don’t know what else to do, waaaahh, waaaaahh, waaaaahh, waaaah, waaaah”— so I broke his TRIGGER FINGER by grabbing it and hitting it with my brick and for that I am truly sorry because I know he loves his work and I know the world would have more evil in it if it weren’t for him, but I’m not sorry for kneecapping him with the shovel or for bursting his nose and splitting his lip and chipping his tooth when I headbutted him.

There IS a moral to this sorry story of mine (who the fuck do I think I am, Dotty Aesop?) – if happiness ever comes into your life DO NOT TRUST IT. It isn’t real. It never WAS real, it was only more of the same old shite that life ALWAYS slings – only this time I allowed myself to be tricked into believing in it and, well, there you go, I got a face full of putridness and it was my own fault for being so gullible and stupid and trusting. But I can honestly say that I NEVER imagined in my wildest imaginings that SCOTTY would betray me in the way he has. He’s stabbed me right between the shoulder blades and I am dying of hurt and I am SO CONFUSED – what he has done is beyond belief but WHY he did it – I don’t think I’ll ever understand. I expected it of Lottie, never of him. Shame on you, Scotty, heaps and heaps and heaps of shame on you.

Sorry, Judith, I tried to follow all your advice, but bridges have been well and truly BURNT today and I will NEVER be the one to provide the bricks to build new ones. NEVER.

 

 

Happy, Happy, Happy – Nothing Is Wrong At All

 

 

 

 

 

 
Listen.

He’s moving around downstairs.

I think I managed to bring all my personal papers up here last night when he was asleep. If I left anything downstairs it’ll just be bills and junk mail.

I’ve told him I want to pack up my bedroom alone today but what I really need to do is think. Something is wrong, very wrong.

I have to be quiet in case he hears me. And I had to put a happy, happy title on the post in case he sneaks a read at it. Does he know I do this blog? I don’t know. I’ve only written in it when he’s been asleep or busy in another room but he could have used one of his devices to watch what I’m doing, or used another device to listen in (that’s why I’m whispering).

He won’t go out. He won’t leave me alone, he’s been here in the house ever since he arrived. Usually when he visits me he goes to see his old mates for an evening, or he goes for walks, or at the very least he’ll nip to the shop for a paper. But this time he hasn’t done any of those things.

Last night I heard him making a phone call and if I didn’t know better I would swear he was speaking to Lottie, except he and Lottie haven’t spoken for years after she found out what he does for a living. No, it couldn’t have been Lottie, I don’t see how or why it would be.

 

 

What’s that noise?

 

 

I thought he was coming upstairs. Late yesterday afternoon we were sorting through my collection of Bookmarks and I brought up the subject of child support and the fact that he doesn’t pay any. He trotted out his usual excuse, he didn’t see why he should, he had only been in relationships with 3 of the mothers and they all had new partners now and the other mothers were one night stands or ports of call and he said he didn’t believe in DNA anyway, it was a global con to make men pay for someone else’s flyblow, the world governments just wanted someone, anyone to cough up, they didn’t care who as long as it wasn’t them. He got agitated, I could tell by the big vein pulsing in the side of his neck, so I didn’t say what I wanted to say about it, what I always say, that this is the only bad thing about him, that if he’d just pay up he would be perfect. At the time I thought I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but when I thought about it last night – and I hate to say this – I didn’t say it because I was scared of the pulsing vein.

It was only a couple of hours afterwards that I heard him on the phone. 

I was right to be scared.

I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to think but I’m stuck in this house with him and if I have to I can’t get away. What is he planning? What are they planning if it was Lottie he was speaking to? And I’m more and more certain it was, I’m sure I heard him say ‘Lots’ which was what he always called her.

You see I know what he can do. How he can make things seem other than they really are. After I killed Simon, Scotty said I should have got him to do it and no one would have suspected a thing, he could have done things to make it look as if Simon had got himself into dark deeds with criminals, or embezzlement, or an affair with a nutter’s wife or something. He could have faked a whole life that Simon never lived and it would have been real, officially, on paper, which would have made it more real than the truth.

Is there a new house or is he lying to me? He could have easily found some random pictures of someone else’s house to show me. Why though? Why would he do such a cruel thing? Why would he make me get rid of my collections and pack up my house if there wasn’t a real house to go to? Is he – are THEY – going to section me again, this time forever?

I think I know now what I have to do. 

 

 

 

Packing Up My Collections

 

I have begun packing up my house. It’s a scary job, very daunting, but I’m doing it sensibly, a bit at a time, focusing on one collection before I even look at another. I started in the kitchen and you’ll be GOBSMACKED when I tell you that I have THROWN AWAY four whole collections. FOUR.

I binned my collection of 534 McCAIN’S CHIPPY CHIP BAGS.

I binned my collection of 211 OXO CONCENTRATED LIQUID STOCK BOTTLES.

I binned my collection of 4,876 DIET COKE BOTTLES (2 litres) which included LIMITED EDITION CHRISTMAS DIET COKE BOTTLES, LIMITED EDITION VALENTINE’S DAY DIET COKE BOTTLES and LIMITED EDITION 2010 FIFA WORLD CUP DIET COKE BOTTLES. When I’m in my new house I intend to begin a new collection of DIET COKE BOTTLES when they start bringing out the LONDON 2012 OLYMPICS DIET COKE BOTTLES. Yes, I’ve given up some treasures but Scotty said I can only take a few collections with me and it’ll be worth it when I’m in my new house and can SEE THE DIMENSIONS OF THE ROOMS.

And I binned my collection of 1,765 SUMA TOMATO PUREE TUBES because they stank.

I didn’t bin my collection of 701 FLORA LIGHT MARGARINE TUBS because they’ll come in handy to store OTHER collections in, such as my collection of 98,543 COLOURED DRAWING PINS, or my collection of 3,621 HISTORICAL TIDDLYWINKS (this collection goes back years, back to when I was five years old, and I still have the red NUMBER 1 TIDDLYWINK which I liberated when Susan Green ran off to tell her mother I had nipped her arm and spat in her hair).

I still have a few collections to sort out in the kitchen but they’re not huge. Then I’ll move on to the living room, then the hallway, then I’ll do upstairs. Generally I’ve not been panicking MUCH if I keep focused on what I’m doing and remember to take my pills at the right time. Scotty has been a great help, singing to me if I DO get a bit panicky or apathetic, cleaning all the shite that my collections have been, until now, covering up (I didn’t know spiders went HARD when they were a long time dead – the legs have been snapping off them here, there and everywhere and Scotty has had to locate every single one of them because I’m NOT sleeping in a house that has DEAD SPIDER’S LEGS all over the place), and all in all he is being the brilliant brother that he has always been.

Strangely I haven’t cried at all today, even when Scotty’s been taking the binbags out to the skip in the front garden. I just give my collections a little wave and blow them a kiss and in my mind I say a nice goodbye and hope they don’t think too badly of me. I’m surprising MYSELF with how I’m reacting (or NOT reacting) to it all and I just KNOW that this move is the best thing that could have happened, it’s come at JUST the right time. The one thing I’m looking forward to above all the other fantastic things this move will bring is going for my first walk alone. Can you picture me walking in NOWHERE? I can. I can sense the freedom, I can almost remember what it felt like to just GO OUTSIDE AND WALK without a care. Eeeeek! Eeeeeek! I can’t wait!

I’m going to go and whittle down my collection of 364 BETAMAX VIDEOS now. I might just chuck the lot out, I can’t even remember what most of them are since my BETAMAX VIDEO PLAYER broke in 1998.

 

 

 

The Best Ever Pretend Christmas Day

 

After I SAVED THE WORLD this morning things went downhill in the food department and we didn’t get to have our Pretend Christmas dinner, it all went tits up (burnt bits, frozen bits in the middle, and a strange taste of Maxwell House coffee granules that I have no idea about) and we had to have Cumberland sausages, McCain’s Chippy Chips and fried eggs which were lovely but I think Scotty would have liked some turkey. But he was pleased with the present I gave him – it was a wallet (he uses lots of wallets for all his identities) and I really should have remembered that because it’s what I buy for him EVERY year, but hey-ho, we can’t remember everything can we?

But guess what? It turned out to be a lovely, lovely day, the best day I’ve ever had in my whole sorry life including my wedding day and the day I offed my husband and the day I got out of prison for offing him – this day beats them ALL (it doesn’t beat the days of my children but that’s different). And in what way, you might ask, was it such a good day? I’ll tell you —

 

MY PRETEND CHRISTMAS PRESENT FROM SCOTTY IS A HOUSE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE.

 

 

It’s a proper house in proper NOWHERE, all you can see for miles around are fields and hills and moors and NO HOUSES which means NO PEOPLE which means I can start trying to go out alone without worrying I’ll make a tit of myself if I have a panic attack because there aren’t even any SHEEP to watch me, and NO EYES MEANS NO SPIES so I might soon be able to GO FOR WALKS ON MY OWN in the lovely countryside without fear of MEETING SOMEONE WHO WANTS TO TALK TO ME or PASSING SOMEONE WHO LOOKS AT ME.

Can you imagine it? I can’t, not fully, not yet, it’s too much of a miracle to actually HAVE what I’ve always dreamt of, a lovely little house of my own that I can live in for always, a garden I can plant trees in and know I’ll see them grow, acres and acres of beautifulness to look at every day AND NO ONE CAN EVER TAKE IT AWAY FROM ME, EVER. Is it too good to be true? – Scotty laughed when I asked him that and then he switched on my laptop and went on the internet and showed me pictures and I AM IN LOVE WITH IT, ALL OF IT. It’s beyond perfection, it’s THE idyllic ideal and my house has a NAME not a number like every other house I’ve ever lived in, it has a real NAME and it has a PORCH and it has a CONSERVATORY but not a new plastic conservatory, an old wooden one that runs the length of the back of the house, and it has cute little SASH WINDOWS that I want to KISS they are so gorgeous and it has EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED AND MORE and I can’t wait to go and see it.

I’ll NEVER be able to thank my lovely generous brother enough for what he’s given me. I was worried about the cost but he said he’s been paid VERY, VERY WELL INDEED for his last two jobs and all that time spent trying to get out of LIBYA was billed at TIME AND A HALF plus he got a BIG BONUS for infiltrating the NLA and doing what he did, so he ended up with more money than he could ever spend on himself (I WAS going to bring up the subject of CHILD SUPPORT but it was such a happy day I didn’t want to spoil it with an argument about him shirking his responsibilities so I left it for now – but I WILL bring it up before he leaves).

This is like a dream. Good things never happen to me, just one miserable thing after another, and NEVER has anything so wonderful come out of the blue like this.

I never thought I’d say this again but here goes –

I AM HAPPY.

 

Dotty Can Be A Horrible Hermit When She Has To Save The World

 

I bet you wouldn’t have dreamt in a zillion years that I have a little streak of fiendishness in me. Just a teensy one. It doesn’t come out often but given the right circumstances – wooosh, I could cut you down like a scythe through slush (I was going to say through shite but I’m trying to stop swearing again, Granny Euphemia popped in to see again me the other night – sorry, I didn’t tell you, did I, it was the night after THAT night).

My little streak of fiendishness came out an hour ago, on this PRETEND CHRISTMAS morning of ours, when Scotty asked for bacon INSTEAD OF Cumberland sausages for breakfast. Now I don’t mind bacon, there’s nothing wrong with it AS AN ACCOMPANIMENT TO CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES but on its own, nah, that’s like Ant without Dec, Torvill without Dean, Roy without Hayley, it’s just plain WRONG and if it ever happened all the butterflies in the world would FALL TO THE GROUND as their WINGS DROPPED OFF and tsunamis and hurricanes and lightning bolts and showers of meteorites would descend on the WORLD and we would all DIE. But he insisted on bacon sandwiches, JUST bacon, and I had to think of something to SAVE US ALL from dying VIOLENT and PAINFUL deaths.

So what I did is when Scotty was in the bathroom I opened the packet of bacon, separated each slice (there were 8 slices) and on each individual slice I rubbed BIG DOLLOPS of Hellman’s Garlic Mayonnaise, Bisto Best Rich & Roasted Chicken Gravy gravy granules, Colman’s Tartare Sauce, Hartley’s Strawberry Jam With No Bits, and Maxwell House coffee granules. I put some Cumberland sausages under the grill to cook then I put the frying pan on the hob and chucked the manky bacon in to fry. After 1 minute and 23 seconds Scotty came out and said ‘What’s that smell? It’s rotten.’ I told him it was his breakfast, JUST bacon like he wanted. He looked into the frying pan at all the sizzling gunk, then he looked at me, then he said, ‘I’ll JUST have Cumberland sausages then, if that’s all right with you.’

That was FINE with me. TICKETY-BOO.

Result — DISASTER EVERTED, (EDIT EDIT – AVERTED – WHO KEEPS PUTTING MISSPELLINGS IN MY BLOG??) the WORLD IS SAVED and we can go ahead with our PRETEND CHRISTMAS.

OH SHITE —- I forgot to put the turkey and the goose in the oven.

Must dash.

 

Scotty Has Bricked Up My Front Door

 

He’s finished it. And he made a better job of it than I could. Very neat, and he painted it and did all the tidying up afterwards. He’s having a little sleep now so I’ve got time to do some blog.

I don’t think I told you much last time, did I, except about our shopping trip to the 24 hour Tesco. Okay well, Scotty arrived about 1.05 am the night before last (twelve taps on the kitchen window and a noise that’s supposed to sound like an owl but never does, bless him). He looked different from the last time I saw him, bigger, much BIGGER and when he took his coat off I saw his arm muscles and they were the BIGGEST ARM MUSCLES I’D EVER SEEN, like DEAD PUPPIES curled up under his skin, and his chest looked like a GIANT’S CHEST and I asked him if he’d been going to a gym (he doesn’t normally join things unless he’s on a job and in disguise) and he said no, it was the job before last that had required him to spend a long time lifting a lot of rocks and boulders in order to look inside caves to see if his target was there. He couldn’t tell me WHO the target was, he never can (outright), but he did a lot of nodding and winking towards my waste paper basket, saying ‘That BIN‘s a bit LADEN, Dotty’ and finally I got it. Ha! But OF COURSE they would have HAD to hire Scotty after all that time spent looking. I should have realised before now.

When we were eating our Cumberland sausage sandwiches (he ate eight of them) he said he was sorry he couldn’t make it back for Christmas, he would have been here, he really, really wanted to be but he was stuck in LIBYA trying to find a way back out again (another job done, isn’t he clever) and he couldn’t find a post box to send me my Christmas card (that explains his tan – I’ll admit I was A BIT worried at first when I saw him, I thought he’d joined a gym with a sunbed in it and become all fairy-fied and metro-sexual like a big muscly PONCE, not that big muscly ponces aren’t nice people or anything). And he looked so sad at missing Christmas that I had a GREAT IDEA (which led to the shopping trip to the 24 hour Tesco) – tomorrow I’m going to make a PRETEND CHRISTMAS DAY for Scotty. You should have seen him when I said we’re going to have a pretend Christmas – he had tears in eyes and I had to punch him one in the face to stop him blubbing, the big girl. We finally found all the decorations, (after a big hunt through my collections because I couldn’t remember where I’d put them), we’ve put the tree up, the turkey and the goose and everything are happily defrosting away and Scotty finished bricking up the front door (yes, I know I’ve already told you that, now I’m telling you again. So what?) He’s painted it white and at the bottom he’s painted a fireplace so it doesn’t look like a front door was ever there at all, it looks like a CHIMNEY BREAST! Not to be boastful or anything but Scotty is the BEST BIG BROTHER IN THE WORLD. Little Donkey is playing softly on the CD player, Scotty is snoring away on the sofa, the tree lights are twinkling, everything feels Christmassy AND IT’S SNOWING! Not bad for a pretend Christmas, eh?

I put the present I had bought for Scotty at Christmas under the pretend Christmas Christmas tree. I didn’t have to hunt for it, I knew exactly where it was and I went straight to it – it was in the place I always keep his Christmas present when Christmas is done with and he hasn’t turned up –  it was in the wooden bread bin that isn’t really a bread bin it’s SCOTTY’S PRESENT RECEPTACLE although it does still say BREAD BIN on the front. I can’t remember what’s in the present though so I’m just as excited to see what I got him as he is.

The present he brought me is a secret, I can’t tell you what it is, but after I shot Simon (see A Statement From The Accused) and the thieving police took all my guns away, Scotty knew just what I wanted and HE GOT ME IT. He’s also giving me his old sniper rifle sock, which has been used in some FAMOUS WAYS, because he just bought himself a new one, (a sock) state of the art – it has all the usual bells and whistles but it also has a BUILT-IN SATELLITE NAVIGATION SYSTEM which would have been useful for helping him out of LIBYA if he’d had it then. The sock, I mean, the new one not the old one, hang on yes the old one, that’s the one I mean, not the new one, he’s just bought that. Oh look, you’re confusing me now. I’m not talking about it any more.

 I’m going to dig out the Christmas Pudding that’s at the back of the kitchen cupboard. I haven’t seen it for a few years but I know it’ll be there, EVERYONE has a Christmas Pudding at the back of their kitchen cupboard.

Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin’s on his way …….

 

Dotty And Scotty Go Shopping

 

RAISE THE FLAGS. SOUND THE HORNS. FIRE THE CANNONS.

I HAVE BEEN OUT. Out of the house. Outside, outdoors, out in the air, out in the snow, out, out, out, out, out. Scotty took me to the 24 hour Tesco. He wasn’t tired after all when he got here last night so he talked me into going shopping but he didn’t have to do much convincing because I always feel safe when Scotty takes me out and I felt particularly safe last night because of my new present (which I can’t tell you about but it fits in my handbag and the silencer fits in that little mobile phone pocket in the lining of my handbag). We set off at 3.30am (Scotty has a gorgeous brand new car – it’s posh) and there were NO OTHER SHOPPERS in the whole of the 24 hour Tesco except two different, separate women in their pyjamas (who does that? Tramps, that’s who) and three separate men, but Scotty got each of them in his sights and tracked them round the aisles while I waited in the Stationery aisle and they didn’t take long to get what they wanted and go.

I bought LOADS of stuff and some lovely, lovely stationery. Have I told you I have a thing about stationery? I LOVE IT ALL but especially fresh new black A5 NOTEBOOKS, soft bendy ones with metal spiralbound spines and a big elastic bit attached to the front cover so the pages don’t flop about if you don’t want them to. I love opening a new A5 NOTEBOOK and seeing the first blank page and knowing there are LOADS of blank pages for me to fill up with whatever shite I want. And I love getting to the last page and knowing I’ll soon be able to open a NEW ONE again. I LOVE MY A5 NOTEBOOKS. I bought a good few of them (32) because who knows when I’ll get to go to the 24 hour Tesco again.

I also bought TWENTY PACKETS OF CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES because I’d rather have Tesco Cumberland sausages than Asda’s (see Dotty Will Soon Be Done For) and like I said, who knows when I’ll get to go there again. I won’t bore you with my whole shopping list, bread, milk, McCain Chippy Chips etc etc because you probably buy similar things to me except if you’re American and you buy things like buttermilk and rye bread and chilli dogs and cornbread and grits and pot roasts and succotash (what the fuck is THAT?) — I have to tell you that in my recipe book collection I have spiralbound copies of both WHITE TRASH COOKING I and WHITE TRASH COOKING II so I know what you people eat and let me tell you IT IS VERY STRANGE and UNHEALTHY and when I’ve got some time I’m going to write to YOUR PRESIDENT MR BARACK OBAMA on your behalf and tell him you need PROPER NUTRITIOUS BRITISH FOOD in America, like Cumberland sausages and Yorkshire puddings and Jam Roly Poly and Chicken Dippers and Chicken Jalfrezi and haggis and Spotted Dick and McCain’s Chippy Chips (which are REAL CHIPS – THEY ARE NOT CRISPS) and sausage rolls and Melton Mowbray pork pies and HobNobs and onion bhajis and Scotch eggs and haslet and samosas and Spam and prawn crackers and Billy Bear sausage and Turkey Twizzlers and all sorts of PROPER NUTRITIOUS BRITISH FOOD that y’all (see what I did there?) should be eating.

Anyway, look what you made me do – I don’t have time to tell you any more about Scotty being here because he’s going to show me some of his photos and things and he’s going to tell me how to get Lottie back for what she did the other night (he was DISGUSTED by her behaviour and he’s going to order me a special trepanning kit from off the internet to replace my hand-drill that the police nicked off me) so I’ll have to tell you all about it next time. Okay?

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT  — Panic attack, panic attack — I did a spelling mistake that I’ve had to come back and edit. I HATE making spelling mistakes, HATE it.

 

 

 

 

Ssshhh, This Is A Secret

 

 

Oh my giddygoddyjesus, I’m as happy as a pig in shit. I can’t stop squealing, eeek, eeek, eeek, not Psycho-stabby eeek, eeek, eeek, not tonight anyway, I’m doing happy eeeks and I can’t stop. Do you know why?

MY BROTHER IS COMING TO STAY WITH ME TONIGHT !!!!!

and I didn’t find out until now because you know when you buy a box of plasters and you get those little round ones that no one uses? I use them. They’re the perfect size for sticking on your electronic things over suspect lights that are really hidden cameras. I’ve got one plaster on a strange light on my laptop (Lottie said it isn’t a camera, it’s a microphone, but who believes HER the spying bitch?), one on my telly, one on my digi-telly-box, one on my DVD recorder, one on my microwave, one on my digi alarm clock, two on my Wii thing, in fact anything that has a red light (or any coloured light, they do blue and green ones nowadays), has a little round plaster on it and this includes my telephone answering machine so I didn’t see the message Scotty left me this morning to say he’s coming (he leaves a coded message, usually a song or a nursery rhyme to outfox Interpol) but I didn’t know the little light was flashing until I accidentally knocked the whole phone off the wall with my hod-carrier a few minutes ago (I’m still on with bricking up the front door, I seem to have missed a few hours somewhere since yesterday, but it doesn’t matter now, Scotty will finish the job for me).

I have to go and start cooking him some sausages. He’ll be starving when he gets here.

OH! AND HE’S BRINGING ME A PRESENT!!!! I know because he sang Baa Baa black sheep, have you any wool, yes sir, yes sir, three bags full, one for the master and one for the dame, and one for the little dot who lives down the lane. And that’s me! The little dot is me. Yippeeee! haaaappy talkin talkin happy talk, talk about things you like tooooo doooooo. if you don’t have a dreeeeeam you’ve got to have a dreeeeeeam or how you gonna make a dream come troooooo.

eeek, eeeek, eeeeek.

 

IMPORTANT EDIT THAT I FORGOT TO SAY —

DON’T TELL ANYONE HE’S COMING.

And I’m so excited I forgot to say CUMBERLAND sausages, I just said sausages. Hahahahahahahahahaha I’m such a divvy bitch, aren’t I?

 

 

Dotty In The Darkness (with lots and lots of swearing)

 

It was the scream that brought them. First the police, then the ambulance, then the fight, then the jab in my arse, then the hospital bed, then the stitches in the burr holes at the top of my forehead, then the FLAPPY-MOUTHED HEADSHRINKINGFUCKFACEDBASTARDINGDICKWAD WHO WOULDN’T KNOW A MENTAL PERSON IF THEY STABBED HIM IN THE THROAT WITH HIS OWN BOWTIE TO SHUT THE FUCKER UP, then home again this morning in time for my breakfast (a Cumberland sausage sandwich – I was bloody starving).

I’m bricking up the front door. At this minute, as I write, I’m waiting for the dust to settle in the bathroom. I know I said I didn’t want to knock down any more walls but this is unavoidable. That front door will never, ever open again. Not to anyone. They can all fuck off and leave me alone, I will NEVER NEVER NEVER speak to any of them again, why couldn’t she just keep her nose out of what doesn’t concern her? And who gave her the key? Not me, I give NOBODY a key to my house, how did she get it the THIEVING BITCH she must have swiped it because it’s my LOST KEY, the one I spent days and days looking for last year and I never found it and it’s worried me ever since but SHE had it all along.

She used my key to let herself in. She invaded my HOME and my PRIVACY and my DIGNITY and what will the police do about it? FUCK ALL, that’s what, they won’t arrest her, they won’t warn her, they won’t even TAKE MY FUCKING KEY OFF HER. She can come into my home whenever she wants, and that’s not right, where are MY RIGHTS, if I stole HER key and sneaked into HER house I’d be done for BREAKING AND ENTERING, but no, because I’m not RIGHT IN THE FUCKING HEAD anyone can come into MY house at ANY TIME OF THE DAY OR NIGHT. And how can ANYONE live like that? Tell me, I want to know. The nights are bad enough when you can’t sleep and every little noise is the sound of your head caving in on itself, or an axeman coming through the window, or a creature, or a monster, or your dear dead Daddy turned EVIL UNDEAD DADDY like he sometimes does and on top of that there’s now the possibility that SHE will be creeping through my rooms spying on me again.

THE POLICE ARE USELESS AND THICK. Can’t they see what she’s doing? Why are they conspiring with her? They won’t get my key back but they take away my little hand-drill, why? Why? It’s my own business what I do with it, I wasn’t hurting anyone was I? It’s A LITTLE FUCKING HAND-DRILL for christ’s sake, not a Black & Decker power drill, if I was trepanning with THAT I could see why they’d take it off me, but I wasn’t, was I, so basically the police have THIEVED my little hand-drill and I’m going to report them, I’m going to sue the bastards to get it back, they had NO RIGHT to take it.

She said she didn’t mean to scream. She said it was the shock that made her. If she hadn’t been spying on me in the first place she wouldn’t have got a shock, would she? And her fat fucking fool of a husband, what was he doing driving her here in the first place, why wasn’t he at home looking after their BRATS? And what did he THINK caused her to scream, did he think I was killing her or something, if he thought that why didn’t he come inside to HELP HER, eh, instead of SITTING IN HIS CAR to phone the police? The cowering fat fuck needs to grow a pair, she could have been dying for all he knew and what did he do, he WAITED OUTSIDE FOR THE POLICE TO COME. Why did she marry such a wimp? SOFT SOUTHERN BASTARD.

What is this compulsion she has to spy on me? What is it? I can’t understand it, most of the time what I am offends all her instincts and sensibilities and she can’t even bring herself to look at me. She said I wasn’t answering the phone but I didn’t HEAR the poxy phone, if I couldn’t HEAR it how could I ANSWER IT?

 

Forgiving her for this will never be an option. Not for this.

 

I asked her – What have I done that’s so bad? I don’t slap babies or disembowel rabbits. 

 

I asked her – Who have I ever hurt?

 

And I answered for her – NO ONE.

 

I told her – Don’t waste your guilt on me.

 

I told her – Everyone is marked by someone else.

 

I told her – I will never speak to you again.

 

 

 

The dust has settled. I’m going to get started on my door.

 

 

 

Meine Mami Und Me (with no swearing)

 

This morning I looked out of my window. Properly looked out, not a peek or a 2 second glance or a white van vigil, I did a proper stand-there-and-SEE look. And what I saw is SNOW. And it reminded me of meine Mami so I thought that seeing as I’m thinking about her today, I might as well tell you a bit about her.

Shortly after my dear dead Daddy died meine Mami upped sticks and left England for a little wander round the world. She’s still wandering and the last I heard she’s somewhere in India, living in a hut on a hill with a guru Yogi who millions of people worship from far and wide – well, good luck to her, I say, she’s living the youth she missed out on. She and dear dead Daddy married young, she was only 16 when she had my brother and she spent all of her young years looking after the three of us. She deserves some happiness and freedom, god knows I wish I had some too. The only thing that worries me is that when she decides to come back she’ll have changed from being meine Mami into being someone else, a stranger, a WOMAN.

Meine Mami was the best mutter in the world when we were young. In most ways. Some things weren’t so good, like the communication problem between her and the rest of England – she only spoke a smattering of English and we didn’t speak any German but she refused to teach us, getting angry when we tried, pointing at us and shouting ‘Englander! Englander! neine Deutsch in zis haus!’ I say she shouted at us, she didn’t really, it was just that her voice ranged about 600 decibels higher than the rest of the human race so it seemed as though she was shouting but she wasn’t – you knew about it when she did. The call for mealtimes shook the house ‘NOW ZAUZAGE. NOW ZAUERKRAUT. NOW HERR KIPLING’S EXZEEDINGLY GUT CAKEZ.’ Every day when she came to pick us up from school she’d stand at the school gates and call ‘SCOTT-EEE, DOTT-EEE, LOTT-EEE, HERE AM MUTTER, HERE AM MUTTER,‘ every day, every single sheissey day of my school years, louder and louder as I slunk further and further down in my seat. The whole school could hear her. She thought it was the best school in the world, all that hilarious laughter coming from it at the end of each day. She didn’t realise they were laughing at US. And I didn’t have the heart to tell her, or the words, come to that.

Going shopping with her was just as bad. We’d trot off down to the market every Saturday morning, me and Scotty and Lottie running in front, looking for a hiding place that we knew wasn’t there. We could never outrun her, her stride was equal to ten of our steps. Most of the stall-holders knew us so that was all right, they’d have her fruit and veg bagged up ready and waiting and all she had to do was pay. But if a new stall appeared her eyes would light up and she’d march over, ‘SCOTT-EE, DOTT-EE, LOTT-EE, FIZH UND CHIPZ,’ or ‘SOHN TROUZERZ, SCOTT-EE’ or ‘TROCHTER BUMNICKERZ, DOTT-EE UND LOTT-EE. RED VUNS, BLUE VUNS, PINK VUNS, VHITE VUNS,‘ and she’d hold up every pair of knickers in our size to select which she wanted to buy. And the stallholder would tell her the price, ‘Three quid, love.’ And off she went, ‘NEINE, NEINE. AM PAY ZWEI PUNDZ, ZWEI PUNDZ, DU ARSCHGEIGE, ZWEI PUNDZ,’ and she’d stand there, unmoving, till the stallholder took the two pounds just to make her go away.

 

No, I’m sorry, I can’t do this, I can’t write about her any more. I’d planned on writing all day, nice things about her, twee little stories of when Scotty, Lottie and me were young but I can’t remember any and now I’m wondering if there were any to remember in the first place because every single thing I think of is not good and I don’t know why. Seeing the snow outside this morning – I must have hallucinated  the rosy glow of nostalgia because I used to dread the snow coming – when it did she’d stand at the school gates calling for us while she threw snowballs at the school windows and at the other parents and at any teachers who dared to step outside to ask her to stop. She’d throw and call and laugh and throw some more and Scotty, Lotty and me would have to wait outside the empty school when everyone else had gone home because dear dead Daddy was working, but before he came to collect us he went down to the police station to pay her bail and drop her off home to get the tea on.

 

I’m going to have to stop now and have a little lie down.

 

 

 

Adventures In The Airing Cupboard

 

Last night I was driven to hide in the airing cupboard by certain people who shall not be named (but you know who you are, don’t you?). They all scared me silly – niceness is disconcerting at the best of times but when it’s forced on a hermit willy-nilly from all directions, well, it was either the airing cupboard or total collapse and a trip to Ward 13. BUT – (and don’t all you Perpetrators of Niceness misinterpret what I’m going to say next as forgiveness or anything) – my time in the airing cupboard turned out to be one of the best times of my life and one of the worst. I’ve only just come out (well, not exactly this minute – I went for a wee and a wash and a Cumberland sausage sandwich or four before I switched on my laptop).

It started off like it usually does. I gathered what I needed (pills, brick, water, blanket, some Cumberland sausages, and a couple of little drams of Laudanum to help me sleep) and went in. My airing cupboard is larger than the average airing cupboard, in fact it used to be one of my spare bedrooms but after my children left home I stored all my new towels, sheets, duvet sets, etc in there (I like to collect nice towels and bedding) so you could say the room decided for itself that it needed a change (and why shouldn’t it?). It’s bigger than a normal airing cupboard but it isn’t Narnia so I can only fit so much in there, and the space I have to make my little bed in IS little, probably a lot smaller than the space in an Uncollector’s airing cupboard. I made my little bed on the bit of floor left in the middle of the stacks. Cosy and warm. I began the shaping of my new brick and spent about an hour or two on that (handy that I was in the airing cupboard, my towels were right there ready to mop up the blood – actually, wait a minute, I just need to check I didn’t use my white ones).

Okay, they were blue.

When I’d finished with my brick I felt round for my torch but it wasn’t there. I know NOW that I forgot it, but I didn’t know it then and all sorts of things started going through my head, terrible things, horrible things about monsters and demons hiding in the stacks, about giant woodlice and moths crawling out to get me, about the airing cupboard being Narnia after all and Queen Jadis had nicked my torch and was going to come back and turn me into a giant snowball. At that I panicked, full blown panic. I thrashed my arms about a bit. And my legs. I think it was my right big toe that clipped the stack of eiderdowns and started the TOPPLE (I’ve put that in big and bold because it was a BIG MEGA TOPPLE). Everything came down on me, all of it, even the stacks that were wedged to the ceiling, I was underneath the whole lot. I panicked some more. I was stuck, I couldn’t get out. I got ready to die and I just knew that when I was found I would be nothing but a dried husk of a Dotty and everything in the airing cupboard would have soaked up all my bodily fluids and CSI Yorkshire would have some nice new towels and posh duvet sets after they’d extracted me out of them and they’d given them a good wash (I hoped they’d use Persil Non-Bio because I’m allergic to other washing powders). I wondered who’d come for me at the FINAL SECOND, Death, or one of his minions, Death’s mini-me, – and if Death really IS a Hoodie I’d be even more afraid than I already was because if he was anything like the Hoodies in my area he wouldn’t just carry a sickle he’d have a five inch shank and a semi-automatic and he’d call me nasty names and say ‘innit’ a lot and then he’d mug me for my phone before he took me away to Deathland (but my phone was in the drawer where I’d put it so phew! he wouldn’t get that). As all this was going through my head I started to  feel dizzy and see stars and I knew it was TIME, the life was seeping out of me, goodbye World you were a shitty place but you had some nice scenery, I’d really miss the sun coming up over Ilkley Moor at dawn on a clear winter’s morn.

Darkness fell and I don’t know what happened then because I was dead (well, obviously I wasn’t DEAD dead, but you know what I mean, I thought I was). I woke up and it was still dark so naturally I assumed I’d been transported out of the airing cupboard to Hell (in case you’re wondering, it wasn’t red, or hot, and there were no flames or screaming wraiths). My head hurt like fuck. I wondered if I’d been right all along and Death HAD mugged me for my phone and while he was at it had given me a bash round the head with his rock-hard boney fist. I put my hand out in front of me to see if it was still there. I wiggled my fingers. I couldn’t see them but what I did see, what slowly took shape right there in front of me, was the most wondrous, heart-lifting thing ever, the best thing I could ever, ever, ever have seen, and if I live until my dying day I shall never forget the sight of my Granny Euphemia standing where my left thumb should have been, her hair still curly and white, her lovely toothless face still crumpled like a squished-up peach, her favourite torn slippers still flapping at the front, her woolly brown dress, her pink cardigan, and her kitchen apron with a big picture of Michelangelo’s David on it. I couldn’t believe it, I thought I was hallucinating that I’d been taken to Heaven not Hell because my Granny Euphemia was the loveliest, kindest, goodest person that ever lived and died and there was no way she would have ended up in Hell. Euphemia Agnes Headbanger nee de la O’McDuff, – our ancestors were French Calvinists, Irish potato faminists, and Scottish barbarians (ginger Picts) –  married to my Granda, Angus McHeadbanger – (dear dead Daddy dropped the Mc when he moved to England but I’ll tell you about that another time when I can think of him without keening).

‘Is that you, Dotty, hen?’ Granny Euphemia said.

Tears were pouring down my face and I was so choked with happiness I could hardly speak. But I did. ‘Yes, Granny Euphemia. It’s me,’ I said.

‘My, my, you’ve got awfy fat, lassie. Whit have you been eating?’

‘Cumberland sausages. They’re my favourite.’

‘Sausages? Do you ken whit they put in them?’

‘They’re no worse than haggis, Granny.’

‘Am I fat, hen? Am I? Tell me now, is there one spare inch of flesh on me? I’ve been eating haggis for nigh on eighty years and I’ve still got the figure that caught your Grandfaither.’

‘But you’ve been dead for twenty years, you’re bound to lose weight.’

‘Have I? Deid, am I? Ach, well, it comes tae us all in the end. Come here and gie me a cuddle, hen.’

I still couldn’t move. I tried to but one arm and both my legs were trapped. ‘I can’t, I’m stuck. Will you help me, please, Granny Euphemia?’

‘No. If you werenae so fat you’d have sprung up out of there in no time. You need tae stop eating yon sausages.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Granny Euphemia, just shift that bag of towels and I’ll be able to move my foot to kick my way out.’

‘No I will not. Ach, whit happened tae you, Dotty, hen? You were such a nice wee lassie. I should’ve gone tae see wee Lottie instead, she widnae speak tae her Granny like that.’

Typical fucking Lottie, I can’t even have a reunion with my long-dead Granny without her butting in on it. ‘I’m sorry for swearing. Please help me up, Granny Euphemia.’

She peered at me lying there, stuck. It seemed like ages before she spoke again. ‘I’ll help you up if you dae something for me,’ she said. ‘Promise me you’ll change your ways. Swearing and eating sausages, they have tae stop. And have you seen the state of your hoose, you dirty wee pig? It’s bogging. Clean it and keep cleaning it every day. I cannae believe you’ve let it get tae that. Where dae you keep your scrubbing brush and carbolic?’

‘Under the sink.’

‘Right, I’m away tae make a start then.’

And poof, she went, disappeared, gone. I lay there thinking about what she’d said. She was right, I had to make some changes, I do swear too much and the house could do with a bit of a tidy. Cutting out Cumberland sausages though – I’d have to see about that one, I’d give it a try, for Granny Euphemia. I hadn’t promised her I’d give them up though, she didn’t give me chance to before she fucked off to find the scrubbing brush and soap, so I thought that if I can’t manage without them at least I’m not going back on my word to her.

INTERLUDE

I got out of the airing cupboard at 3.03pm this afternoon. I don’t know how, it’s all a bit of a haze after Granny Euphemia disappeared, but if I remember rightly my lovely Ian Somerhalder came and lifted everything off me and stacked it all up neatly again. As I’ve already said, I had a wash and a wee and a pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches as soon as I came out. And I’m going to have some MORE Cumberland sausage sandwiches now for my tea because you know what, Granny Euphemia is nowhere to be seen, she didn’t TOUCH the scrubbing brush or the soap and everything in the house is just as I left it last night. So, Granny Euphemia, even though seeing you made me the happiest Dotty in the world, you can go and sit and swivel on the scrubbing brush you old slacker, I bet you didn’t even look for it, I bet you just pissed off down the pub to get sozzled, didn’t you, so if it’s all right for you to say one thing and do another it’s all right for me too. I WILL stop swearing like I said I would, and I’ll clean my house BY MYSELF (seeing as you haven’t done ANYTHING at all) but as for giving up my Cumberland sausages, Hell will freeze over before that happens.

Right, I’m off to make my tea before it gets any later. I’m starving.

 

Bricks, Berserkers And Big Meaty Crawly Creatures

 

I have a new brick. Bricks. Whoop-diddly-doo. Oh happy, happy me. Yes, well, you’ll see why I’m not over the moon when you get to the end of this. And I’m a bit (a lot) terrified as I’m writing so forgive me if I’m not as with-it as I normally am. Fear of the unknown does that to you. 

In the end I didn’t have to go into the garden to get my brick because just as I was putting on my brassards and vambraces the phone rang. I let it go to the answerphone as usual but when I realised it was Lottie (my sister) droning on, I ran to pick up the receiver. I don’t ever do that, I can’t stand the cow, but at that moment she was the lesser of the two evils (garden? sister? garden? sister? – no contest, I know the dangers of my sister, I didn’t know what was out there in the garden) and if I could talk her into coming round to see me there was a slim chance of conning her into getting me a brick. I told her I was having a series of panic attacks (true). I told her I couldn’t cope any more (true). I told her I was going up onto the roof, a little white lie that she would have spotted if she ever bothered to listen to me – I CAN’T GO OUT OF THE HOUSE, YOU THICK BINT, HOW I AM GOING TO GET ONTO THE ROOF?

Anyway, she came. And, although she said she wouldn’t, she brought THE BERSERKERS with her. I was taking off my chain mail when I heard them coming down the front path (they only live two streets away) and I had another panic attack at the sound of them, during which one of the chain mail rings got caught on my earring and almost ripped it out of my lobe.

Knock, knock, knock at the door.

‘I’m coming.’

Bang, bang, bang on the door.

‘I said I’m coming.’

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG

‘Stop it, you’re going to kick the panel in!’ 

‘Come on, Auntie Dotty, we’re cold. It’s snowing again. Let us in.’ Fucking hooligans.

‘I will in a minute, girls, I need a wee.’

I dropped the chain mail where I stood then ran upstairs and had a lie down on the bathroom floor. Why had she brought them? She KNOWS I can’t cope with their screeching and bawling and their devious antics, why bring them round when her reason for being here was to keep me away from the roof? What sort of mother puts their children through the trauma of watching their auntie fling herself to her death? I should ring Social Services and get the brats taken off her, mental cruelty is just as bad as the other sort. I checked my earlobe for blood. There wasn’t any, no thanks to Lottie. I could hear her shouting ‘Dotty, answer the door or we’re going home.’ Typical Lottie, leave me here to kill myself then, that’ll prove to everyone what a heartless cow you REALLY are, not Saint Lottie the Saviour, Saint Lottie the Good Sister, you’re Saint Lottie the BITCH who won’t lift a finger to keep her own sister alive, fuck off home then and take your delinquent spawn with you.

Then I remembered why she had really come. My brick. I went into my bedroom and opened the window. Lottie and THE BERSERKERS looked up at me. Lottie shouted, ‘Oh god, she’s serious. Come here, girls, don’t look. Dotty, please don’t climb out.’

Dim cow. I threw the front door keys down to her. ‘Let yourself in. I’ll be down in a minute.’

 

INTERLUDE (Are interludes allowed in blog posts? Hmm.)

 

Twenty minutes later and THE BERSERKERS had dried off and warmed up and were sitting in front of my telly waiting for Casualty to come on, blowing bubbles into their cups of milk. Their soggy hats and mittens were steaming on the radiator, stinking out the room. It was odd to see them sitting still and being quiet. Unnerving.

Lottie and I were on the sofa and all the things that had previously been on the sofa, organised in neat piles, were now on the floor, unorganised in messy heaps. She had no consideration or respect for my collections. She looked at me with that disapproving sister-shrivelling face of hers as the Casualty tune started up. ‘Dotty, the girls are too young to watch this. Can I put a DVD on for them?’

‘I’ve just bought the third series of Dexter. Have they seen it yet?’

‘Why are you being like this? You asked us to come round.’

I hadn’t got my brick yet so I thought it wise not to say I’d only asked HER to come round so I said, ‘Sorry. It’s been a really bad day.’

She asked what had happened and I told her about the local teenagers vandalising all the gardens in the area, writing rude words on the garden sheds, stealing forks and spades and bricks and windchimes and gnomes, hanging all the neighbourhood cats from washing lines, putting petrol bombs in the compost heaps.

‘Stop lying, Dotty. Why did you really want me to come?’

Before I could think of a plausible answer that would get me my brick, THE BERSERKERS started whispering to each other. They both put their cups down on the floor and looked round at me and Lottie. I did that thing with my fingers and eyes – I’m. Watching. You. – and they started giggling. One of them jumped up and, fast as a fly, got up on my lap and clamped her pudgy little arms around my neck. She smelled like marshmallows. I tried to look round her to see what the other one was doing but this one’s stupid curls were too big and bouncy and she was wriggling like a big worm, kissing me all over my face, and I only caught a glimpse of the other one’s socks as she crawled towards my extensive, catalogued DVD collection. Why? What was she going to do? I couldn’t get away from the arms and the lips and the curls and the smell and  – ‘GET IT OFF ME,’ I shouted.

‘Get Shrek,’ the one that was on me shouted.

‘NOOOO!!!.’ The little witches! Not my Limited Edition Director’s Cut Shrek with silver edging round the case and Extra Features that aren’t on the plebby version. NOBODY touches that, not even ME.

I heard the crash of my DVD stacks toppling over. THE BERSERKER that was on me leapt off and skipped over to where her sister was kneeling in the carnage, rooting through my films. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.

Finally Lottie said in her controlled, sing-song I’m-a-textbook-mother-but-I-haven’t-reached-the-How-To-Control-My-Kids-Chapter voice, ‘Be careful, girls. Try not to mess up Auntie Dotty’s DVDs.’

TRY NOT TO MESS UP AUNTIE DOTTY’S DVDS? TRY NOT TO MESS THEM UP?

My heart was beating faster than a rapper on speed. Panic attack coming on. I took four beta-blockers out of my beta-blocker pocket and ate them and just as I swallowed the last one THE BERSERKERS suddenly screamed and screamed, screams more horrible than the screams of spiralling angels, chill screams of terror and fright, and they were back on the sofa clinging onto Lottie, sobbing, before that last sour pill had gone down my throat.

I looked at the DVD carnage. In the middle of it, on top of What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? was a big mean beast of a spider, the biggest, blackest, hairiest, ugliest fucker I’d ever seen. Its legs were thick and meaty. It’s body was the size of an orange. A Jaffa. I could see its eyes. And its fangs. It was looking at us. I screamed and yanked my feet up onto the sofa. All the while Lottie was saying ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ until the littlest BERSERKER sobbed out ‘Big thpider,’ and pointed to where it was waiting. ‘Wow,’ went Lottie, ‘that is a big one. Stop crying, girls, it won’t hurt you, it’s more frightened of you than you are of it.’

I knew she was stupid but not that stupid. At that moment I felt sorry for THE BERSERKERS, a rare occurence, but I’ll admit it wasn’t the first time I’d pitied them for having Lottie as their mother.

‘Let me up and I’ll catch it,’ she said. She untangled herself and THE BERSERKERS wrapped themselves around ME instead while she went off into the kitchen.

‘Don’t you dare use my cup. Or my glass. Or anything.’

‘What can I use then?’

‘A BRICK. Go and get a brick. Three bricks. Hurry up, it’s getting ready to run.’ 

She came back with a tea towel, an empty bean tin and the front of an old Crunchy Nut Cornflakes box I was saving for … something useful. Quick as a flash, she threw the teatowel over the spider and waited with the tin and the front of the Crunchy Nut Cornflakes box (at this point I’d have been smashing the thing with a sweeping brush) until it showed one of its legs, like a Can-Can dancer from behind a stage curtain, and then she had it in the tin and went to the door and released it to breed more huge monsters just like it that would lie in wait for me in my garden. Where my bricks are.

 

ANOTHER INTERLUDE (Tough-titty if interludes are just for plays, they aren’t any more, I’ve liberated them)

 

My Limited Edition Director’s Cut Shrek was on the telly and THE BERSERKERS were curled up on the sofa, asleep. No, I didn’t melt at the sight of them, I was just glad they were unconscious. My DVD collection was stacked up again, neatly but not in order. My earlobe was still throbbing and I felt a bit woozy from all the stress. The impossibility of getting a new brick was fogging my thoughts, a pea-souper of futility and hopelessness.

‘Wayne’s coming here after work to collect us. I rang him when you went to the loo,’ Lottie said.

‘Right.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you wanted a brick?’

‘What? I don’t know.’ Could it be because you’re a patronising cow and you’d have given me yet another lecture about how I could stop being this way if I really put my mind to it?

‘Where are they?’

‘What?’

‘Where are the bricks?’

‘Round the parsnip bed. I was about to go and get one when you rang.’

Then she did something that completely gobsmacked me. She went out into the garden, into the snow, and I watched from the window as she dug up the brick edging around the parsnip bed. Then she went into my shed and found some log roll that I didn’t know I had and she set it all round the parsnip bed, no gaps. THEN she scrubbed and hosed the 14 bricks she’d dug up and put them to dry on my kitchen floor on some old towels she found at the back of the airing cupboard. And when Wayne arrived and they’d wrapped THE BERSERKERS in my fleecey blankets and carried them, still sleeping, into the car, and Lottie came back and hugged me before I could leap away from her and whispered, ‘Dear dead Daddy needed his bricks, too, Dotty. Do you remember?’ I managed to stay stoic, I don’t know how, but I did.

After they’d gone and I’d shut and locked and bolted the front door, I picked up my chain mail, my brassards, my vambraces and the rest of my armour and took it all upstairs. And then I laid on my bed and cried until morning came.

 

INTERLUDE

 

I’m frightened. Because of my sister being nice to me I have enough bricks to last me for ages AND the parsnips remain securely detained in their bed. But WHY was she nice to me? What is she concocting? Is she going to have me sectioned again? Or try and make me get rid of my collections? She’s up to something bad, I know it. It’s all turned out worse than I thought it would. And better. But I don’t know what to think about the better, it’s unnatural, unknown for Lottie to show any understanding, there has to be an ulterior motive behind her niceness.

I am VERY frightened.

 

 

 

 

Cumberland Sausages I Love You

 

I make no apologies for the length of this post. It’s about Cumberland sausages and Cumberland sausages are my favourite, favourite food. Nothing can take away from the sheer joy of eating a Cumberland sausage, even the psychotic killers Asda can’t spoil them for me, (see Dotty Will Soon Be Done For). I limit myself to a packet a day, just a small pack of eight. I could eat and eat and eat them. They are beautiful.

What makes a Cumberland sausage different from other sausages? I’ll tell you – apart from their superior taste they have the versatility of no other sausage. They’re so well-made that they’re not only a Cumberland sausage, they can be anything you want them to be – not like Lincolnshire sausages that contain unidentified green bits. When I tried to make a Lincolnshire sausage curtain pole the links weren’t strong enough to hold up my cream Jaquard curtains, (I used Lincolnshire instead of Cumberland because I thought the green bits would set off the cream. Never again). Also, Lincolnshire sausages taste like green, in fact they were probably named after the colour Lincoln green because they do taste like Lincoln green which reminds me of my dear dead Daddy’s Land Rover that he cried over when some random teenage delinquent stranger borrowed it one day to go for a little drive to Beachy Head, but the driver’s door would never catch properly and stay shut unless you knew the trick to it, and she fell out half a minute too early onto the cliff top. Maybe that’s what the green bits are in Lincolnshire sausages, bits of old car. Hmm, yes, I believe so.

The unlimited versatility of Cumberland sausages really is unlimited. I’ve been eating them for years but six months ago, when I learned they can be cooked, a whole new world was opened up to me. Besides discovering my frying pan and my grill and my George Foreman (except I don’t use that now, it looks like a big toothless mouth when it’s open), I realised that when cooked the Cumberland sausage is better than any food of the gods. If Cumberland sausages had been invented when the gods had only boring old nectar to sup I’d bet my right ear on which would have been the more famous of them today because think about it, can nectar replace a broken door handle like a Cumberland sausage can? No it can’t. Can you make a pretty nectar over-blanket? No you can’t. If you’re roasting a chicken and, during the testing-to-see-if-it’s-cooked bit you accidentally break it, can you weld the leg or the wing or whatever back on again with nectar? No you can’t, but you can with a piping hot, carefully pricked, carefully aimed Cumberland Sausage Welder.

Many items that we take for granted in our daily lives could easily be chucked out and replaced with Cumberland Sausages. For example —-

 (NB – I shouldn’t have to explain what to do here, but for normal readers who lack the imagination and creativity of we who are mental, I will).

Humane mouse-traps – Throw them out. Bung Cumberland sausages into the mouseholes. Yes the mice will eat them, that’s the point. Keep bunging Cumberland sausages into the holes the second you see they are empty and soon the mice will be too fat to move and you can just pick them up with a shovel and throw them outside. This will be a great personal sacrifice of part of your own daily portion of Cumberland sausages but it’s worth it in the end.

Nails – Throw all your nails away because PVC doors are no good for nailing notes onto if you’re the social butterfly type and go out to the shop once a week and it happens to be the day when the gasman is due and you need to tell him never to come back. Heat a Cumberland sausage until piping hot, make a thin slit about 5mm from the end to slot the top of your note into. As the fat cools and congeals it will fix your note to the Cumberland sausage. Secure the other end of the Cumberland sausage into your letterbox with the note on the outside of the door. Result, the gasman won’t be back and you have a cold Cumberland sausage for when you get back.

Spoons – Throw all your spoons away. Learn to sculpt your Cumberland sausages. Keep your metal ladle for when you make Cumberland sausage stew and dumplings because no matter how well you sculpt your Cumberland sausage spoons, they’ll never be big enough for a good helping of stew.

Ice grips for the bottom of your shoes – Don’t buy them. Measure how many Cumberland sausages you need for ONLY ONE SHOE. Cut the Cumberland sausages in half lengthways and now you have the required amount for two shoes. Staple them onto the soles. You can also use Cumberland sausages instead of buying Party Feet gel pads.

Ergonomic laptops or keyboards or mousepads, in fact all ergonomic items can be thrown away and replaced with your own custom-fitted Cumberland sausages items.

Other uses —-

Finger puppets – Cut the ends off your Cumberland sausage. Carefully scoop out a little of the sausage meat but not too much or you’ll only have skin. Wiggle your finger inside until the sausage fits. Repeat with each finger you want a puppet for. Decide which Cumberland sausage will be mother (usually the one that fits the index finger – daddy is in the middle). Make her face by pressing on bits of burnt Cumberland sausage that you saved from the frying pan and repeat for all the family. Make her boobs by sticking on two of the ends that you chopped off earlier. Ends can also be used as a hat for daddy, knee-pads for skater-boy son, hairstyle for daughter, or a family pet such as a dachshund. (See Warning/Hobbies For Hermits)

Emergency toothbrush – When you drop your toothbrush down the loo and you’ve none left in your stockpile, use a Cumberland sausage.

Ditto above when you’ve used your last drop of moisturiser.

Use Cumberland sausages to plug taps that drip and drip and drip and drip and drip and drip until you don’t know whether it’s the tap dripping or the ghost of the dead pirate drowned at sea coming to get you.

Use Cumberland sausages as emergency fake moustaches /teeth/witches fingers when people say they are coming to visit you and you need them not to.

Use Cumberland sausages as cake decorations, for those posh cakes decorated round the sides with upright Cadbury’s Fingers. Cumberland sausages are a pretty alternative.

 

 

Oh, I could write and write about Cumberland sausages. But I’ll stop now and let you discover wonderful things about them for yourself. I’ll just say one more thing – you are in for such a treat.

Bon appetite, bloggy people!

 

 

 

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