Tuesday 2nd August

I know that some of you ‘peeps’ are wondering about where Handsome-Rob has gone.

He hasn’t actually gone anywhere, mainly because he hasn’t actually, formally arrived yet.

As blokes go, I could do worse; he’s well buff, very funny, very patient and best of all has that whole ‘behave yourself or this is gonna get real, pretty damned quick’ thing going on.

What more could I want? Or as Friend-Kate put it: “What’s your problem, you sappy tart?”

I blame the fence.

One night, most probably when I was a’sleepin (or at the very least, passed out, face down on the stairs, in a pool of my own vomit) Mother Nature craftily turned up in a JCB, and erected a forty-metre, electrified perimeter fence around, what used to be, the ‘we-both-speak-English-so-why-don’t-you-move-in-and-get-me-knocked-up-real-nice’ part of my kingdom.

I only discovered the fence when Handsome-Rob whispered, lovingly in my ear one Saturday night, that maybe ‘tonight was the night’ and that perhaps I’d like to sample one of his famous Sunday morning breakfasts of the ‘in-bed’ variety.

I’ll be the first to admit that throwing a glass of Robinsons Orange Barley Water in his face, slapping him and accusing him of being a ‘wierdo-sex-fiend’ was probably a bit over the top, but I was all ‘where did that come from?’ One minute you’re watching TV like a normal person and then, out of nowhere, and for no reason whatsoever, you’ve turned into Merv-the-Perv.’

Think you’re getting anywhere near my ‘lady-garden?’ I should bloody coco.

After he’d left, I started to wonder; what actually is your problem, you sappy tart?

Well, I’ll tell you what my problem is.


That’s my problem.

I myself can, quite capably, make a huge great big deal about how gifted I am to be able to change a plug.

I can bitch about mowing the lawn. I can lie on the sofa and watch sport all day if I want. I can fart in bed. I can leave ‘skiddies’ in my own pants if I feel so inclined. I can pretend I’m going one place when actually I’m secretly going out with one of my girl-friends. I can watch internet-porn, all night if I feel like it. I can buy myself some clothes and then drone on and on about how expensive they were and, if I really feel like it, I’m perfectly capable of being outrageously rude, for no reason whatsoever, to my own friends when they dare to ring up and try to speak to me.

So, what the bleeding hell do I need a permanent, bed-hogging man for?

I think that I’m being sold a couple of acres of agricultural land on the moon here.

I like the idea of having someone to buy the popcorn at the cinema. I quite like going out for dinner and getting told that I’m ‘ab-fab’ (‘cos I am) but quite honestly, if I wanted to wake up every morning and be faced with some bristly faced, fart-mongering, ‘yucky-breath,’ I’d break my hard-and-fast rule about disgusting things sleeping on my bed, and let the dog curl up at my feet once in a while.

I do accept that I might, at some point, actually let Handsome-Rob touch me but in my own good time thank you very much.

Until that point, I suggest that he keeps his breakfast sausage somewhere chilled where it can’t cause any further strife.

In point of fact, and since we’re on the subject, I think that I might actually be ready for a penis of my own now.

Does that make me gay?

Gotta go. Looks like I’ve got a heavy night of ‘Googling’ in front of me.