Dotty Had A Visitor This Morning

 

Guess who my visitor was? LITTLE EMILY! She’s back, she’s recovered from her illness, she’s writing again, she’s going for her morning walks again, she’s cooking again (she brought me some sort of porridgey slop that looked like wallpaper paste and tasted like mouldy bread). She still looks a bit peaky and thin but I’ll soon fatten her up – she ate four Cumberland sausage sandwiches this morning, not bad but nowhere near the amount she usually scoffs. It won’t take long to train her up again though, I told her to imagine she’s entered a trencherman’s competition and she has to beat a line-up of big fat farmers who can eat for England and probably the rest of the world except when I mention the rest of the world and the countries in it she doesn’t know half the names because they’ve changed since her day, for instance Ceylon is now Sri Lanka, Siam is now Thailand, Persia is now Iran and none of the new names sound half as romantic as the old ones did so she doesn’t like them.

She didn’t have much news to tell me seeing as she’s been laid up, but she did tell me Branwell’s in trouble again with debt collectors – the other day one came to the house, a big ugly arm-snapper who kicked Branwell round the garden and told him he’d better pay up or he’ll come back and kill him. Poor Branwell, I wondered why he hadn’t called in for a natter since his last delivery of laudanum. I told little Emily to tell him he can stay here for a few days if he needs somewhere to hide but she said he’s paid the debt, he stole Papa Brontë’s spare pocket watch (he hasn’t noticed it’s gone yet) and pawned it.

I started to tell her about my day out with Branwell but he’d already told her all about it so I told her about my trip to the hospital with Lottie instead. She said she wishes she’d known about it, she’d have come with me, so next time I have to go she’s going to come too! She wants to see the machines – they have such a great fascination for machines, these Victorians, I wish they’d left well alone and maybe we’d be living in a different, quieter world today – ah, but then I might not be writing my little blog, or be able to cook my Cumberland sausages so nicely, or watch my lovely Ian Somerhalder on telly (Tuesday is the last episode of this series — what am I going to do???) so I suppose there are some good sides.

I told her all about meeting Kumblant. She got a bit stroppy when I said I was allowing him to tell his story on my blog, she stamped her foot and said SHE was promised her own post and why had I let someone else go first? I got round her moodiness by reminding her of how ill she’d been and how long it is since she’s visited, and then I told her some of the hardships Kumblant has had to face and when I’d finished she said she pitied him and he sounds nice and she’s okay about him going first with the posts if it’ll help him slay more monsters.

So that’s it really, we had a little catch-up, we had some breakfast, we’ve made plans for her to come back again tomorrow, and now I’m going to cook some more Cumberland sausages for my tea tonight.

And I’ve just noticed something — there isn’t ONE swear word in this post. I wonder why? There’s something not quite right about a post without a swear word. Should I do one now?

Hmmmm.

No, I won’t. I’ll leave it swearless even though when I hover the mouse over Publish it feels like I’m going out without my skirt on.

 

 

 

Little Emily Has Almost Stopped Being A Morky Bitch!!

 

Branwell sorted it all out for me, he told her she’d better get down here to see me or he’ll use the pages of her novel to make his roll-ups with. He’s been trying to get her to come here for days, he said he’s sick of her slouching round the house spouting moody poems and shite, even Charlotte became fed up of her miserable face and that’s saying something because Charlotte’s face is EVEN MORE MISERABLE than little Emily’s so she’s got no room to talk.

So little Emily has been and gone this afternoon and she’s coming back again tomorrow. I told her about my migraine and how nice Branwell had been about giving me more laudanum to replace the extra I needed to take that day and all she said was she doesn’t like The Fucking Migraine Poem, it doesn’t scan properly, it has too many verses and I should be highly ashamed of it. Well, yes, I am now.

She wanted all the gossip. She asked if I’d had any comeback from dibble after I dosed Sergeant Sherlock’s Cumberland sausages with laudanum that day, but no I haven’t, I haven’t heard dicky-boo from them and that’s fine by me.

We’re not quite as easy with each other as we were but I suppose it’ll take time for her to come out of her strop completely, she doesn’t half know how to hold a grudge. As a gesture of friendship I said she can have a whole blog post of her own to do what she likes with – and she cheered up then, of course she did, she’s been dying to have a blog post – I asked why she doesn’t just do her own blog and she looked at me like I was stupid and asked ‘In which century was the internet invented, Dotty?’ Oh, yeah.

But don’t expect her blog post any time soon, she always makes a right meal of her writing – she has to have everything perfect and JUST SO, she’d edit edit edit until the cows came home if Charlotte let her. Write it straight into the blog post box thingy like I do, I said and she shuddered and called me a slap-dash heathen and I called her a fucking luddite and by the time she left we were almost back to normal. 

I’m off to make some more Cumberland sausages for tomorrow – she puts away a fair amount of scran for someone so little, I don’t know where it all goes.

 

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 —

 

 

 

 

 

No.

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 she PUNCHED ME IN THE BACK.

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.

 

 

 

 

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)

 

A Short Note About A Note From JUDAS

 

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

This is what it says —

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

 

Dotty On Reality (WITH TWO PICTURES)

 

I'm off to get a chunk of moon cheese for my dinner.

If this post is going to make any sense you’ll have to read my last post, Dotty Headbanger, Star of the Dark Satanic Screen and then it will make complete and utter sense. If you don’t read my last post you won’t know what I’m whittering on about here so go and read it NOW and then come back and by then I’ll have finished writing THIS post.

Go on then, off you toddle. And don’t forget, you can’t lie to me and tell me you’ve read it when you haven’t because I CAN SEE YOU ON MY STATS.

 

Right then, you’re back. Good. I’ll start by telling you that I HAVE BEEN TO SLEEP. And it was my last post that SENT ME TO SLEEP (I hope it hasn’t done the same for you – that would be a BAD THING TO HAPPEN and I’d have to cut my fingers off so they won’t ever BORE you again). Anyway, when I was writing my last post  (at 12.30am this morning) I couldn’t work out which parts of it were real and which weren’t and my brain got all boggled and exhausted and I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I fell asleep. But when I woke up this morning everything was crystal clear – my brain must have sorted it all out when I was asleep and I’m not confused about it any more, I know what’s real and what isn’t and so should YOU.

 

So here’s what my brain did in the night to sort out REALITY for me —

 

I am real but I’m not real because the me you THINK I AM isn’t the ME I AM (this is true of EVERYONE, isn’t it?)

Little Emily WAS real but now she isn’t. BUT SHE IS.

Heathcliff was NEVER real, only in little Emily’s head and then in the heads of her READERS which makes Heathcliff real INSIDE HEADS which makes little Emily real because how could Heathcliff be real inside heads if little Emily didn’t put him there?

Nurse Ratchett IS real. I know because I saw her yesterday when she was mean and cruel to Jack Nicholson who isn’t real because the age he was yesterday when I saw him isn’t the age he is NOW, so the Jack Nicholson I saw yesterday is an unreal long gone GHOST.

The dead ewe IS real because the carrion crow was eating it.

The carrion crow is NOT real because where is it? It’s nowhere to be seen.

The Cartesian Evil Demon IS real because if she wasn’t real it would mean that I wouldn’t be here and I AM HERE because YOU ARE READING ME.

I am NOT real. That isn’t really ME cycling to the moon in the picture — I don’t LIKE moon cheese so I would never eat it, I only like DOUBLE GLOUCESTER cheese. And anyway, you know it isn’t really me because how could it be – I CAN’T GO OUT.

The words I am writing are NOT real because when you leave this page WHERE ARE THEY?

YOU are not real because even if you’re size zero you STILL wouldn’t be thin enough to fit inside my laptop.

 

So now we know what’s real and what isn’t, I want to show you this picture of the REAL ME before I finish–

I DON'T LIKE MOON CHEESE, I ONLY LIKE DOUBLE GLOUCESTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

P.S. Do you know how long it took me to do these pictures? A FUCKING LONG TIME, that’s how long. And if they come out wonky when I press Publish I don’t care, they’ll have to stay wonky.

 

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