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


knock knock

knock knock


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


knock knock

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

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



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

knock knock …….

knock knock …….

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



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



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


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

‘Wipe your sandals,’ I mumbled.

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

Then he said, ‘Come and sit with me.’

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

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘A green tea, please.’

Cheeky bastard.

‘What do you WANT?‘ I repeated.

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

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


That was it –

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

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

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

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

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



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


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

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



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


and I’ve accepted it from VICTOR TOOKES

whose blog you can find HERE,

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

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




not like my own award

The Dotty Headbanger Award For Being Mental & Loving It

which you award to yourself – 

this time I’m specifically choosing to specifically award

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

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



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

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

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


P.P.S.  They got me in the end.


P.P.P.S.  No more and never again.




A Dotty Picture Puzzle


What’s the answer to the picture puzzle?

Robert de Niro's waiting

It’s easy.



talking Italian...




First one to get it right can have the pictures if they want.

I’m only doing a picture puzzle to practice doing pictures and making them stick where I put them.

Fingers crossed!


Stinking Stillness – (What To Do)?


the towels stink

i stare at them and stare at them and stare at them

but they still stink


I Made A New Page For You While I’m Waiting For The Boilerman


It’s for you all (y’all) to add your links to your blogs and so you can find other good blogs to read.

SPREAD THE LOVE, MY CHICKADEES, far across the wide, wide, WordPress.

Add your own blog to DOTTY’S PET BLOGS.

And go and visit each other.

But always come back to me.

Because I love you.

You are ALL beautiful.

And sparkly.

No exceptions.

Except one.


Dotty Is Slightly Miffed With The Boilerman





OY, BOILERMAN – see that writing in the picture? It’s for YOU, you LYING FIBBING SHIRKER.

Just you wait till morning – that’s if you ARRIVE in the morning and you don’t make up another excuse not to come. ILL? yes right, what with? DOUBLE PNEUMONIA? BERI-BERI? E-COLI? THE BUBONIC PLAGUE? ill my fucking granny’s gums, you are NOT ill if you’ve got anything wrong with you it’s MAN FLU, you woosy-arsed whiney fucking WIMP. If you want to see ILL you should have seen me today WAITING FOR YOU TO COME AND FIX MY BOILER but just you wait, tomorrow I’m not taking ANY of my FUCKING PROPANOLOL and tonight I’m not taking my FUCKING MIRTAZAPINE AND MY FUCKING NIGHT BETA-BLOCKERS AND I’M NOT TAKING ANY FUCKING PILLS AT ALL TONIGHT OR TOMORROW SO IN THE MORNING YOU WILL GET THE FULL EFFECTS OF ME NOT TAKING MY FUCKIGN PILLS AND THEN YOU WILL KNOW WHAT BEING ILL IS YOU LYING LITTLE BASTARD AND i WILL LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR SO YOU CAN’T GET OUT AND YOU’LL THNK YOU ARE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND YES YOU WILL BE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND THAT FUCKING LOONY WILL BE ME. 


I Said Oops Up Side Your Head, I Said Oops Up Side Your Head


I used to like this song (the one in the title) when I was young but I spent hours and hours and hours and hours trying to work out the meaning of the title. I still don’t know what it means and little Emily is just as puzzled as I am. It’s stupid. It’s a good song, but it’s stupid.


We’ve been going through some of my records.


Where’s Adam Ant? I loved Adam Ant with his stripey face and flamboyant movements of his arms. 





And little Jimmy Somerville. WHERE IS LITTLE JIMMY SOMERVILLE? Bronski Beat. Yeah.


And that group, what’s-their-name, who sang






Why can’t I remember their name?


I’ve always known it.

Kingston Town.


ALI CAMPBELL was the singer.

Oh for fuck’s sake.









Dotty’s 100th Blog Post (And It’s F***ing Brilliant) …


… or it would have been if I could have been bothered writing a post. But I can’t be bothered, I’m knackered after all the commotions and shite so I’m going back to bed and this is all you’re getting today.

Anyone have a problem with that?


EDIT EDIT EDIT — I came back because I forgot to tell you what I did. LOOK HERE  












Dotty Wants To Batter Someone But She Can’t So The Police Will Have To Do It For Her


Someone just sent me an email and in it they asked me a horrible, insulting stupid question that I think you should all see —

Is Little Emily your go-between drug dealer?

And here’s my answer that I’m writing here instead of in an email so I have evidence for when I SUE YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE AND FOR ALL YOU WILL EVER EARN —


For one – little Emily is an AUTHOR

for two – she is DEAD

for three – what gave this stupid tosser the idea that I take drugs? Have I ever mentioned taking drugs? NO. Medication – YES, but drugs – NO I HAVE NOT. AND I DO NOT APPRECIATE THE INFERENCE THAT I HAVE.

I’m ringing the police. I’m ringing 999 and they’ll come straight away and when they do I’ll show them the email and tell them I want the fucker done for SLANDER. And I’m ringing Sergeant Sherlock who is now my PET POLICEMAN AND ALSO MAYBE MY NEW BOYFRIEND BUT WE’LL JUST SEE HOW IT GOES who will make sure the 999 police arrest that person and show them some good old-fashioned police brutality.




Where Are You All Coming From?


Where are you all coming from?

From Smurfland where we belong…



Because I don’t have any visitors from Smurfland on my new Stats Map thingy.

I don’t even have a MAP, I only get a LIST.

Is it cos I is British?

Is that why I don’t have a map?

Or any visitors from Smurfland?

Is it?


Ah, fuck it, I’m going to bed.

Goodnight, Finland. You’re the closest I have on my list to Smurfland because your name ends in ‘land’.

So goodnight.




Dotty Sundays Are Very Very Boring


I’ve eaten a lot of Cumberland sausages today because I’ve been bored out of my skull and my eye still hurts. I don’t know WHY Sundays are so boring, they’re just the same as every other day for me, here in my house, because I CAN’T GO OUT, but there’s a boring Sunday feeling to Sundays that I don’t get on the other days.





Where’s my brick?




Little Emily – A Withering Shite (And Then Not)



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

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

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

UNTIL she called me a —







I can’t say it.







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




She called me a SUFFERING CLUCK.

And then she shouted at me —

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

Her eyes looked like big black shiny marbles.

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

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


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

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

‘How did you get them?’

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

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


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





I Can’t Be Bothered To Think Of A Title



what day is it i cant be arsed thinking to work it out it doesnt matter anyway all the days are the same hours and hours and hours of nothing except when little emily comes to see me

beyond boredom lies dont give a whistling shit about anything because giving a whistling shit involves too much effort and any effort is too much effort

capital letters are too much effort

punctuation is too much effort

typing with more than two index fingers is too much effort

touching the space bar is too much effort but im forcing myself

putting the colour i like onto the words is too much effort

doing bold shouty letters is too much effort

moving is too much effort

i need a sleep



i dont care what scotty does any more he can do what he likes he can send messages however he likes he can put me away if he likes whats the point in fighting him he always wins



this laptop is making a strange noise

and its very very hot

i cant be bothered to turn it off

if my blog is gone when you next try to get into it you know what happened

it blew up







Dotty Book Review – Wuthering Heights


My new best friend, little Emily, is the credited author of this book with a teensy bit of help from yours truly – Cathy Earnshaw has ginger hair and this was my doing because little Emily couldn’t make up her mind what colour hair Cathy should have so I advised her – ginger. Cathy runs around the moors a lot. I think she has a mental illness that makes her think she’s a ginger sheep she gallops about up there so much. I asked Branwell if he can sort her out with a little tot of laudanum to calm her down (his prices are very reasonable).

It’s Heathcliff I feel sorry for. Have you seen the state of his little house? It’s nothing but RUINS, a few tumbledown stones. I worry about where he sleeps in winter. In summer he’s fine, he sits drinking in the Black Bull all night with nice American tourists who’ve travelled a long way to visit him and when they find out he has nowhere to stay they very kindly stump up the cash for his Bed & Breakfast in the pub. It’s when the nice Americans go away that concerns me, what does he do then? Little Emily won’t have him in the house he’s caused so much trouble. He’s a moody sod at the best of times, so how anyone would put up with him lodging in their house I don’t know. I wouldn’t have him to stay with me, I couldn’t anyway because I HAVE PEOPLE PHOBIA and a moody man in the house would scare me. Having JUDAS to stay was bad enough and he’s my ex-brother, imagine what it would do to me having a relative stranger around all the time, especially one as morose as Heathcliff. No, he can’t come here.

Cathy should be the one to take him in but she won’t. She’s a bit of a bimbo, and she’s a bit slutty too. And she can’t sing. When she had black bushy hair (before little Emily saught my advice) she changed her name to Kate and she used to stand outside Heathcliff’s window singing a synopsis of the book. I’ll leave you to listen to her singing it, I don’t want to hear her again, I’ve got tinnitus and she’d do my head in. This is what she sings —


Out on the wiley, windy moors

we’d roll and fall in green.

You had a temper — like my jealousy,

too hot, too greedy.

How could you leave me

when I needed to — possess you?

I hated you, I loved you too.

Bad dreams in the night

told me I was going to lose the fight,

leave behind my Wuuuthering, Wuuuthering,

Wuuuthering-a Heights

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Oooh it gets dark, it gets lonely

on the other side from you.

I pine a lot. I find the lot

falls through without you.

I’m coming back love,

Cruel Heathcliff, my one dream,

my only Master.

Too long I roam in the night.

I’m coming back to his side to put it right.

I’m coming home to Wuuuthering, Wuuuthering,

Wuuuthering-a Heights

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Ooh, let me have it,

let me grab your soul away.

Ooh, let me have it,

let me grab your soul away.

You know it’s me — Cathy.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so cold.

by Kate Bush (Cathy’s stage name)


Short Dotty Film Review Of All The Twilight Films

I'm not putting a picture of ugly Pobert on my little blog so you can look at the book instead



Pobert Rattinson (see Dotty’s Consonant Swap Game) is one of the ugliest fuckers ever to show himself on my telly. His face looks like someone smacked it repeatedly with a gravestone. He resembles Stefan Somerhalder (see Totty On The Telly), my lovely Ian Somerhalder’s ugly brother from THE VAMPIRE DIARIES.

In the films Pobert is a vampire and he has a girlfriend who is human. Ring any bells? Yes, of course it rings bells, a BIG fucking ding-a-ling of bells, because IT’S A COMPLETE RIP-OFF OF THE VAMPIRE DIARIES. And yes, I HAVE read the books, the first three anyway, and putting aside THE VAMPIRE DIARIES rip-off issue the books are a zillion times better than the films for these four reasons —

1.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.

2.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.

3.  Pobert’s ugly face isn’t in the books.


So don’t bother watching these films, they’re shite. You should read the books instead – PROPER books with PAPER PAGES.


Score  – 0 out of 10


Guess What I’m Giving Up For Lent?



I'm giving up anchovies for Lent.

Disgusting, foul, nasty anchovies.

Leave them in the sea to live a happy fishy life because they taste rotten.

Conquered – Them, Not Me. Ha!



I’ve got them all back.


But they still shouldn’t have done it in the first place.




The Tyrant God Of The Internet Smites Little Dotty – Defences Are Up









EDIT EDIT EDIT – ———–  VICTORY IS ALMOST MINE. I’ve got most of them back except Pile of Shite. It’s amazing what a well-worded up-your-arse email can do, isn’t it?



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 –



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


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.




Happy, Happy, Happy – Nothing Is Wrong At All







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. 




The Universe Is Bestowing Blessings On ME, Dotty!!!!!


What’s happening? What’s all this GOOD LUCK I’m having? Is it a result of me SAVING THE WORLD yesterday? Have the BUTTERFLIES grown extra pairs of WINGS? Is it an anomaly in the UNIVERSE? Has a NEW BLACK HOLE opened up in a distant GALAXY and is, at this very moment, sucking up all the BAD?




Me, Dotty, the Dotty who never wins anything even a booby prize. I just checked my ticket from Friday night and BOSH, I’m a winner! Granted, it’s only £2.80 but that’s A PACKET OF CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES (£1.50) and almost ANOTHER PACKET OF CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES!!!!

Waaahooooo!! Get in there, Dotty, you lucky cow!


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



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?


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.




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.




Dotty In The Doldrums (with very little swearing)


It’s funny how thinking about one thing always leads to thinking about another. Except when you’re comatose, no one knows what your thoughts do then and there are no memories to show you afterwards. My little foray into thinking got me thinking a bit more today, not much, just one question that kept repeating itself over and over and still won’t go away —

What is Dotty?

No answers come. There are no answers. To have answers you first need truths and all my truths went out of the window years ago. One truth that everyone on this planet thinks they are certain of is BEING BORN. I’ve never been certain of it. How do I know I was born? I only have meine Mami’s word for it and that’s not really proof, is it, it’s hearsay. I don’t remember ANYTHING about my alleged birth and you’d think I would seeing as it’s up there with DEATH in the list of major life events.

 Some of us trudging this planet might not even be homo sapiens, we might be another, different, cousin species of the first apes to stand up, homo doomigloomius, homo slittywrists, homo whythefuckamIevenhere. Because most of the time I don’t feel human and human behaviour confounds and baffles me and I think, Dotty they are just like you without the fuckupiness, but no, they’re NOT, they’re SO different that I can only conclude I’m right about not being completely human, or either I’M not completely human or THEY’RE not, it depends who and what the original namer of the species was –  if he was a happy chappy then THEY became humans, if it was a miserable fuck then We Who Are Mental did.

But if we ARE all one species then it all becomes truly tragic and hopeless (which is the way WE see it now – which, I suppose, is a TRUTH after all). If we are all one species then NORMAL people are merely posturing their way through life in the hope that others will believe they too are NORMAL. Scratch down a bit and We Who Are Mental  would see them for what they really are, reflections of ourselves, because it can’t work the other way round, scratch OUR surfaces and all you’d find is more of the same. And worse.

Which is why, one species or not, WE will always be the not-quite-human humans (if we are human at all), made to feel like an alien species, unborns, mental abominations, fucking loose-minded loonies who need locking away. But it isn’t US they really fear even though they think it is – it’s what they see in us, the dark reflection, it’s what they hear in us, their own echo, it’s what they know when they think of us – that IT lives somewhere within themselves too. And it truly terrifies them. As it should.





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.




DIY For She-Hermits



For All She-Hermits

DIY is shite, we all know that. It involves planning things and DOING things that we don’t want to do. It’s not just normal shite, it’s A LOAD OF SHITE, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil, sometimes it’s unavoidable and we just have to pull our fingers out and get on with it. So I’m going to tell you everything you need to know about DIY so you don’t have to worry about it ever again.

Men treat DIY as if it’s brain surgery. Just as a brain surgeon wears his scrubs to operate, DIY men get dressed up in boiler suits or overalls (or whatever they call those all-in-one things), thinking they look work-like and sexy, but really those boiler suits are just BIG BABY ROMPER SUITS that look like BIG BABY ROMPER SUITS and serve no purpose at all. Wear your jeans, you silly man, you’re not a baby. It’s not a good look.

DIY men have all sorts of tools and power tools and gadgets, but they don’t just have ONE of everything, they have a ROOM full of the stuff, usually a cellar or a shed that they won’t let you into, packed full of it all, millions of screwdrivers and hammers and awls and drills and drill bits and pliers and spirit levels and screws for wood, screws for metal, screws for bricks (INFIDELS) and chisels and saws and grinders and welders and sanders and planes and loads and loads and loads of other bits of metal shite that are all POINTLESS and STUPID. And they make boards to DISPLAY THEIR TOOLS ON THE WALLS. What’s that all about, eh? Rembrandt the Spanner? And they won’t use THE WRONG TOOL to get a job done quickly, they have to use the exact one, the two and one eighth red posi-drive screwdriver that clicks when you turn it and JUST FITS inside the screw, and when they’ve done the job that screwdriver has to be put back in JUST THE RIGHT PLACE or they moan and moan and moan like the big whiney-arses they are. WELL BOLLOCKS TO ALL OF THAT. Every single DIY job can be done without keeping B&Q and Toolfix in business. To do a DIY job to perfection a She-Hermit doesn’t need all that fuckwit-stuff, you only need a few tools and a few all-purpose things that I’m going to list now.


1 massive straight-headed screwdriver

1 stiletto shoe (strong heel, metal tip)

1 palette knife

1 carving knife

1 fish slice

1 nail file

1 pair of eyebrow tweezers

1 big, big bag of nails

miscellaneous household & garden things


And that’s it. Not even a drawerful, but you don’t need anything else and I’m going to demonstrate this by telling you about a little DIY project that I completed last year.



Begin by taking your floor up in the kitchen. Lift your lino then take the floorboards up by prising at them with your massive straight-headed screwdriver. Be careful you don’t rip your lino or snap your floorboards, you’ll need to put them back down again when you’ve finished.

Get your garden spade and start digging out your Air-Raid Shelter. Use your pots and pans for the soil and when they’re full empty them out of your kitchen window. As you empty more and more pots and pans a soil-wall will grow in front of your kitchen window providing you with a natural block against nosey neighbours peering in. Dig down deep, the deeper the better, and you’ll tap into the natural geothermal heat that the centre of the earth provides for free, saving money on future heating bills when you spend time in your Air-Raid Shelter.

When you’ve dug out your big hole you need to line it with something. Get a lot of wood (send your Shopping Person out in the middle of the night to nick a big fence) and get your stiletto and your big bag of nails. Nail all the wood together to form walls and a floor. You’ll need to water-proof the wood or it’ll rot at some point – A DIY man would tell you that you need to tank your Air-Raid Shelter with something non-permeable and spend loads of money doing so, but in the same way as you line a pond by sealing it with puddled clay, you can water-proof your Air-Raid Shelter with a mixture of solidified Cumberland sausage fat and the dust from around your house (leave the dust for as long as it takes for 3 inch piles to form and when you need it for water-proofing your Air-Raid Shelter you can just peel it off in lumps). Spread the mixture all over the wooden walls and floor to seal it permanently.

Now comes the fun bit – choosing the wallpaper. White is good because it brightens the place up but it can be a bit sterile so I went for a lovely background shade of Apple White, (which is white but with a little hint of apple green), and in the foreground is a repeating picture of a little blue bird on a branch, just right for when you have to spend a lot of time down there and you can’t see any nature. Use your carving knife for slicing the strips of wallpaper to the right size. Stick it straight onto the walls and it’ll stick to the Cumberland sausage fat and dust mixture, no wallpaper paste required. Use your fish slice for smoothing it into place and getting the bubbles out. (You can paint the walls if you’d rather – your massive screwdriver will easily open the paint tin, doubles up as a stirring stick and you can jam it into the head of a paintbrush if you’ve lost the original handle). Ba-da-boom, one beautifully decorated Air-Raid Shelter ready to furnish as you please but remember to put in a food shelf (use nails and stiletto), and a bed (bring one down from upstairs).

When you put the floorboards back be sure to make a door in them (with your carving knife to cut out the shape, nails, stiletto). Don’t forget to cut a bit out of your lino for access.


When I can be bothered I’m going to tell you about how I made the wasted space in the insides of my walls into extra storage space for my collections by taking out the cavity wall insulation. You need some little children for this, to squeeze into the narrow spaces – I used THE BERSERKERS but any will do. Also you might need to borrow two tools from a man – an angle grinder and some bolt-cutters. These are to cut through the metal butterfly ties that join the inner and outer walls together. Remember though, big electric power tools are dangerous so give the angle grinder to the eldest child and the bolt-cutters to the youngest – Prissy is the eldest BERSERKER (she’s 7) so she had the angle grinder, Cissy’s only 5 so she had the bolt-cutters. If you’re American and live in a wooden house you won’t have to borrow these tools, in fact you won’t have to use the insides of your walls at all, you can just get your Shopping Person to nick a load of fences and make some more outside walls for your house, leaving as much of a gap as you want.


So you see, She-Hermits, DIY isn’t brain surgery, it isn’t complicated and you don’t need all the tools and shit that men pretend you need. It’s a PIECE OF PISS and anyone can do it.

Happy DIYing!!


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.


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.


A Few Oggerys For Hermits


Bloggery – (Dah-Dah!!)

Sloggery – (housework)

Cloggery – (what happens to my sinks when I don’t do any sloggery)

Foggery – (of the brain)

Coggery (the process when I try to think)

Joggery – (on the spot)

Soggery – (wet, teary pillowcases)

Toggery – (the duvet I wear all day)

Moggery – (hatred of other people’s cats)

Hoggery – (Cumberland Sausages)

Smoggery – (when I’m cooking Cumberland sausages)

Hoggery # 2 – (collecting! and keeping!)

Boggery – (this is what happens when my loo gets cloggery if I’ve neglected my sloggery)




A Dotty Question

Do you really like me or are you just clicking?

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.’


‘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.’


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.


‘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?’


‘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.




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.





My Head-Shaped Brick


It broke. Last night. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t got another one here in the house. To get another one I’d have to go outside and dig one up from the edge of the parsnip patch, but doing that would leave a gap in the edging and the parsnips might escape and do sick things to the onions. I don’t know what to do and I need to do SOMETHING but the house will fall down if I start dismantling any more walls, and really I don’t want to dismantle the walls that are left, open plan living is WRONG and only RAVING EXTROVERT EXHIBITIONISTS live like that. I don’t know what to do. I need my brick.

Why did it have to break, Dotty? It was forming nicely, a few more weeks of headbanging and I would have got it exactly right, it would have been perfect, THE perfect head-shaped brick, a NORI brick and they’re so hard to come by nowadays I don’t know when I’ll find another. It was only the third one I’d ever had. Somebody must have weakened it at some point in its life, whacked it with something to see if it would break but it didn’t, did it, until NOW you fucking BRICK KILLER whoever you are, some big lumbering maggoty-brained TWAT of a builder-with-arse-cleavage-that-would-scare-a-baboon, go shove your TINGLE PLATE up your nasty arse. That’s the only reason I can think of, it’s been sabotaged, there’s no other way it would have broke like that before it was formed, my bricks last for months, sometimes a year or more, they NEVER EVER break before they’re properly head-shaped even my BROADMOOR brick lasted 9 months and a NORI brick should have pissed on a BROADMOOR brick for durability.




I’m trying to PRACTICE PATIENCE here but it isn’t going well, not well at all. I NEED MY FUCKING BRICK. My Shopping Person won’t be here until Tuesday. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, three days until I can send them to the reclamation yard.

I can’t wait that long.

I have to go into the garden.


Or tonight.

Or at 3.33 am tomorrow morning.

I’m going to go and prepare.

There are things I need and I can’t remember where I put them.

I’ll let you know what happens.

If I make it back.

If I don’t make it back my will is inside the Cumberland sausage that is inside the Snap-n-Click container that is on the BOTTOM shelf of the freezer behind the McCAIN’S CHIPPY CHIPS.

The cause of death will be HEART-A-FUCKING-PANIC-ATTACK.


Or who knows what else.


Think well of me when I’m gone.



First Aid For Hermits


Always being alone in your house can be dangerous but combine it with not speaking to other people and it becomes potentially fatal. I’ve had many accidents that could have been serious if I hadn’t known what to do at the time. To avoid death (and why NOT avoid it, you avoid everything else – why should death be any different?) here are a few First Aid basics you really do need to know. Bear in mind I’m NOT a doctor, I can only tell you what I personally do when I injure myself.

I’m presuming you have a well-stocked medicine room, if not just make note of the items in big writing and get your Shopping Person to get them for you- I can’t be bothered making a shopping list for you today.


Bumps and Bruises

For bangs on the head caused by banging your head on the wall fill the sink with equal amounts of ABSINTHE and WITCH HAZEL and put your head in it (be careful not to drown). This will help to bring out the bruising. If you think you might have knocked yourself out then it’s possible you might have concussion or a brain injury so go and have a little lie down for a while until the headache has gone. A big swig of Laudanum will help with the pain.


Nicks and Cuts

For little nicks on your fingers caused by the cheese grater, or for slightly deeper cuts from the scissors you use to separate your Cumberland sausage links, stop whining and stick a PLASTER on it. Deeper nicks and cuts, (such as when you’ve bought a cow home and you’re butchering it so you can freeze some for later and you chop half your hand off instead of the cow’s head), require an antiseptic ointment of OPIUM and LARD, a BANDAGE, and a strip of plaster to stop your bandage from unravelling. Clean the wound first though with your ARSENIC DISINFECTANT OINTMENT. A big swig of Laudanum will help with the pain.


Trapped Nerves

For a trapped nerve in the neck caused by kneeling at your window at an angle that allows you to keep watch for white vans with spies in them without being seen by your nosey neighbours, I’m afraid you need time in TRACTION. Use a SAW to make a neck-sized hole at one end of your kitchen table. Don’t worry, it won’t affect your keep fit routine, (see The Dotty Way To Exercise ©™®), in fact you’ll be using your DIET COKE BOTTLES for this too, doubling your value for money. Tie your diet coke bottles to either end of a LEATHER STRAP (a handbag strap will do, it doesn’t matter if you only have one handbag, use it – you don’t use if for anything else, do you?) place your diet coke bottles at either side of the neck-sized hole and lie down (on your back) on the table. Carefully lift the diet coke bottles and place the leather strap across the front of your neck. Let the diet coke bottles drop off the end of the table (slowly and carefully, you might want to avoid beheading yourself). Stay in this position for 3 hours. Repeat daily for 6 weeks and the weight of the diet coke bottles will free your trapped nerve allowing your future white van vigils to be pain-free and comfortable. Big swigs of Laudanum taken hourly will help with the pain.


Stomach Upsets

If you haven’t yet learned how to cook your Cumberland sausages you might have a few stomach problems. First of all, always cook your Cumberland sausages for at least an hour, contrary to popular belief crispy is good, so is black. To cure stomach upsets already caused by uncooked Cumberland sausages make WORMWOOD tea (if you’re not a gardener you can use ABSINTHE but not too much because it’s a potent alcoholic drink and you don’t want to get addicted). A big swig of Laudanum will help with the pain.


Twisted, Sprained or Broken Arms and Legs

If you haven’t cleaned your house yet you’re at great risk of tripping over some bit of shite that shouldn’t be on your floor. This is VERY PAINFUL when you do it and as you’ve no way of knowing the severity of the injury (unless you have your own X-Ray machine which I’m saving up for) it’s best to err on the side of caution and SPLINT the limb you’ve damaged. If your stock of pre-made splints has run out and you’ve been too idle to make some more, it serves you right, you should keep up with your housework, I’ve already told you this. If you’re a new hermit and this is the first time you need a splint, what you do is you take a shelf from your bookcase (lay the books in neat piles on the floor) saw it down to fit your arm or leg and strap it on to said arm or leg. You can use anything to secure it (I’ve found knee-socks work well) as long as it’s tied tight enough for the splint to stay on. Keep the splint on for about 3 months. Big swigs of Laudanum taken hourly will help with the pain.


Strangling Yourself On Your Shower Curtain

It might happen that one day you’re playing with your (toy) ducks in the bath and you get a bit too involved and try to swim with them underwater but when you dive you hit your head on the bottom and can’t get up and to save yourself from drowning you grab the shower curtain but you’re so disorientated you get into a fight with it and it wraps itself round your neck and tries to strangle you and when you finally get free of it you’re left with nasty strangle contusions round your neck. And it bloody well hurts. A lot. Well sorry, there’s nothing you can do for this except take a big swig of Laudanum to help with the pain.


May you all remain injury-free and painless, my hermits. Be safe, be careful, and most of all be prepared.



Collecting NOT Hoarding


I’ve been getting oh so bored lately and after a lot of thought I decided I need to start a new collection. I’ve written elsewhere in this blog about hoarding (see Hobbies For Hermits), and this is NOT the same, not at all because what I’m now collecting is American Therapists and Life Coaches. So far I’ve got two, one for each category, which is pretty good going, don’t you think, to say I only started my collection the day before yesterday.

But apart from being bored I have another motive for this new collection. Lately I’m in a positive mood, a self-help mood, so I chose to collect American Therapists and Life Coaches in the hope that they will become my friends and emigrate to Britain and treat me for free for the rest of my life (they would have to if they lived here in Britain). Did you know this, my American Therapist and Life Coach? When you come to live in Britain you’ll need to know these things, you’ll need to know how we do things here.

I’ll explain it all.

We Who Are Mental (I’ve decided we deserve to be capitalised from now on) do not pay you a penny for therapy or for life coaching. David Cameron pays you. He’s a nice man. All you do is come here, tell him a little fib – that you’re a failed banker who wants a career change – and what he’ll do is give you loads and loads and loads of money, and he’ll give you MORE loads and loads and loads of money if you also tell him you really, really hate poor people. If you say you once went to Europe, he’ll give you a big bonus and let you play with his little doll called Nick.

You can live with me, all of you. I admit, the house I live in at the moment is far too small for lots of us (I’m reckoning on having many more than two American Therapists and Life Coaches in my collection) but I’ve thought of that – with the pile of money David is going to give each of you, you can all club together and buy a great mansion set in mmmm, let’s say 2,000 acres of beautiful gardens and woodland, with streams and badgers and otters and hawks and huge ancient oak trees and fairies and elves and hobbits and ten big gamekeepers with big guns to blast the heads off any intruders. You’ll have your own rooms, you’ll have a fantastic time conversing with your intellectual peers, you’ll have the beauty and grandeur of the British countryside, and best of all you’ll have the professional satisfaction of collectively treating a lost cause (me). And the cherry on your cake is – wait for it – FREE HEALTH CARE, you won’t ever have to shell out for a doctor again. Howsabout that!!

If the two I have collected so far, my American Therapist and my American Life Coach, would like to come here now I am able to accomodate you, at a squeeze. I have a sofa bed stored in my cellar (you can scrub the mould off when you get here), and my sister, Lottie, has a camp bed (she won’t charge much). Be prepared to start work immediately though – although I DO want you to come and live with me, my People Phobia and my Hermititis will make it appear that I don’t, but it’s your job to sort that out, it IS the reason you’re coming after all.

If the collection goes well I might consider expanding it to include American Personal Trainers, American Plastic Surgeons, American Hairdressers, American Publishers Of Satire And Farce, and American Actors Who I Fancy. Actually, I’m going to start on the last one now –

Ian Somerhalder, where are you?



Dotty DOES Her Housework


I couldn’t sleep last night after I posted Dotty On Housework. At 3.12 am a series of panic attacks began at the thought of how unkind of me it was not to give you some helpful tips and instructions to guide you through the apathy that overcomes you when you look at the disgusting mess that’s mounted up in your house. When the police left, I DID have a little sleep, but not for long. Don’t worry, I’m all right, a little hazy from the beta-blocker sandwich I had to have, but that’s okay. Don’t feel guilty or anything – it isn’t your fault, you can’t help it if you’re needy and clingy and have no idea of what it takes me to write these things down. Anyway, I forgive you because I’m nice like that.

So let’s move on to the cause of last night’s crisis –


Just because we don’t like housework doesn’t mean we don’t have to do some now and again but before we begin cleaning there are a few things you need to buy. Make note of these things and get your Shopping Person to get them for you (don’t let them go to Asda though, they get enough of my money already without me referring people to them. And we all know what they are, don’t we?)

What you need on your list if you don’t already have them —— A big bottle of Bleach. Flash Spray with Bleach. Flash Antibacterial All Purpose Spray. Another big bottle of Bleach. Dettol Antibacterial Loo Wipes. A bottle of Windolene. Mr Muscle Oven Cleaner. A can of Mr Sheen Polish. A bottle of 2-in-1 Pantene Shampoo & Conditioner, For Extra Volume. L’Oreal Moisturiser For Sensitive Skin. Cumberland sausages (any will do, get the cheapest, you won’t be eating them). A pack of Toothbrushes. A tub of Chewable Vitamin C to keep you going. A big box of Chocolates for when you’ve finished. Two big tubs of Häagen Dazs or (and) Ben & Jerry’s for when you’ve finished. A big bar of Galaxy for when you’ve finished. A Big Cumberland sausage Pizza with extra Cumberland sausage for when you’ve finished. A big Cheesey Garlic Bread for when you’ve finished. Six bottles of Pinot Grigio for when you’ve finished. Series 3 Boxset of True Blood for when you’ve finished.

I think that’s it.

When the shopping arrives, put the loo wipes and a big bottle of bleach in your bathroom. Put the new toothbrushes in the place you keep them and take the one you use now downstairs. Put all the cleaning products in the cupboard under your sink. You won’t be needing them but if someone comes to your house you can casually swing open the cupboard door and leave it wide open so the visitors can see what’s inside.

Now, believe me I know what it’s like trying to do housework, you begin by thinking ‘what REALLY needs a good clean? Everything? Where do I start?’ and then, because it’s all too much for you, you give up and have a little sleep and when you wake up you’ve forgotten about housework again. But the secret to seeing past the overwhelmingness of housework is to PRIORITISE. Obviously I don’t know what your house is like because I’ve never been invited, so all I can do is tell you what I do. You can copy me if you want.


Cleaning My Mounted Boar’s Head & My Other Stuffed Friends

Since they banned Arsenic from being used in the tanning process, (I still have my own supply but I’m saving it for when I really need it) I’ve had to find a way to give my stuffed friends a spruce up. I’ll take you step by step through how I clean Jolyon, my mounted boar’s head.

Before you carefully take Jolyon down from the wall, run a warm bath (no bubbles). Put Jolyon in the bath. Get your Pantene 2-in-1 Shampoo & Conditioner For Extra Volume. Squirt a good amount into your hand and give Jolyon a good wash with it. Scrub him a bit with your old toothbrush. Rinse off the soapiness until it’s all gone. Wrap Jolyon in a bath towel and take him downstairs. Get your hairdryer out. Dry him. Rub in the L’Oreal Moisturiser For Sensitive Skin. Hang him back up. Job done.

Do the same with all your stuffed friends. If you like, before you hang them up or put them back in their places, you can have a tea party with them, that’s what I do, but be careful of your seating arrangements – I once sat Bumbi, my stuffed baby deer, next to Peter, my stuffed mountain lion. Poor, poor, Bumbi, he’s never recovered.


Cleaning A Big Blood Stain Off My Astroturf Carpet

It won’t come off. I’ve tried everything except Cumberland sausage fat which works on other stains I use it for. Usually I heat the Cumberland sausage, drip the fat onto the stain, go away and eat the Cumberland sausage and the other Cumberland sausages I cooked at the same time, and when I come back the Cumberland sausage fat has set. I pick off the solidified Cumberland sausage fat AND THE STAIN COMES WITH IT. I don’t know the scientific term for this but I bet it’s a clever one.

But there’s a big problem with using Cumberland sausage fat on blood stains. I’m too frightened that whatever scientific process binds the Cumberland sausage fat to a stain will go wrong when it’s a blood stain, and something else will happen, like the Cumberland sausage fat will meld to the blood stain and the sun will shine on it and make it come alive and when it grows up it will be a CUMBERLAND MAN-PIG, and I’ll be stuck with it forever when it’s not long since I came out of prison for getting rid of Simon, who was also a man-pig but only metaphorically. (see A Statement From The Accused).

So the blood stain stays.


Cleaning My Panic Room

Don’t bother. Jodie Foster doesn’t clean hers. I couldn’t see any cleaning products in there, not even a sweeping brush, the lazy tramp. The least she could do is put some things out for show. But if Jodie Foster thinks it’s okay to have a mucky Panic Room, then so do I.



That’s enough cleaning for now, especially after last night. I’m knackered. I need a sleep.




I’ve come back to edit this because I couldn’t sleep – I remembered something important that will save you from having to do ANY housework at all. Make friends with a Mormon (see Friendly Mormons, Where Are You?). You don’t really have to be friends with them, just pretend and your house will be gleaming. I realise this poses a conundrum for hermits, how do I make friends with a Mormon when I can’t go out? Well you could ring them up or if you don’t do phones you could send them an email. And I know you’ll have a problem letting them in, but wouldn’t it be worth it to get your house cleaned? Think about it, they’re good, they’re really good. Thorough. Meticulous.  They love doing it. And they’ll sing you a song if you ask them to.



Can you see what I’m doing here when I refer you to my older posts? Clever, aren’t I?



Dotty on Housework


I only have one word to say about housework.

That word is –




A Letter To My Brain


Dear Brain,

Where have you gone? Are you hiding from me? I think I last heard from you three weeks ago when we had to calculate how much we owe everyone and work out how to pay them. You did well and I thought we had come to an understanding, that you could idle around for most of the time but would come to the rescue when I really, really need you. What happened? Was the adding up too much for you? Did I make you do a wrong number?

I keep knocking but you never answer. Taptaptaptaptap. Bangbangbangbangbang.

Where could you hide? There’s nowhere for you to go, you’re the same as me – you live in a vaccuum, dark and sealed. Did you find an escape route and run away when I was sleeping? Did you buy a French breast implant and sneak it under my skull hoping I wouldn’t notice in time to stop you? Well, it worked. Inside my head feels all woolly and dense, like a bulging, overstuffed mattress and if someone jumped on it they would bounce and bounce and bounce.

Trying to figure out where you are is hard without you. I know I haven’t treated you well lately and I don’t blame you if you have run away, I’d do the same myself if I could get out of this house. I know you miss the Outside just as much as I do, but we have fresh air when we open the windows and the sun shines through the house for much of the day. Isn’t that enough for you? I know we can’t go for walks like we used to, up on the moors to ride the wild sheep, to feel their springy power as we gallop over the tussocky hummocks of grass, the wind ragging through our hair and their fleece; to see their little faces as we bleat and baa to them in their own language, alleviating their loneliness for a short, sweet time. I miss that too, Brain. You’re not the only one.

If you come back I will make you a promise. For one day in the week I will eat fish instead of Cumberland sausages. And I will buy Omega 3 supplements and take them every day. That’s actually two promises, but you’re worth it. Also, I will buy a book of Sudoku puzzles, the hard ones. And I will never, ever watch television again (except clever programmes like University Challenge and Top Gear).

Please come back.

All my love,

Dotty  xxx



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