Out in the Cold

Forgive me, my brothers, for once again straying. But it was not my fault. They have stripped me and abused me and taken the only thing of value I possess. Shame overcomes me and I shake as I tell you, my brothers but I am now off-line. Oh cruel, cruel. And those nasty Virgin people cannot come till next Tuesday, O my brothers and only friends, I am forced to make a life for myself in that nasty and cruel Outside World.

I dragged myself into the heartless High Street, wincing against the snow, rags on my back, my stomach empty, my soul barren, and crawled up the steps of the Dispensary. I begged them to take pity and asked if they could spare some vitalls and some cutter. They got the supervisor: She was harsh and cruel, Readers:
"Look Mrs Smith," the old bag said, " I have told you, you need to book in advance for a terminal. And you are not Alex de Large, you are not dressed in rags and my colleague saw you stuffing a Big Mac by the river an hour ago, you greedy cow!" I shivered and begged for mercy. And assured her, tho' my skirt was from Gerry Weber, it was purchased in a sale. She was unimpressed. She heartlessly continued:

"And incidentally, it is 27 degrees outside and we are a public library. If you call us the St Vincents Dispensary again, the council will sue! You are not Frank McCourt and this is not Angela's Ashes - which by the way, I think is very overrated!"
Not enough bodice ripping in it for you? I suggested meekly.
She went a funny colour. And really, such a barrage of bad language followed. And from a Vicar's wife too!
You see the conditions I have to put up with.

My life is like a large and open void. I am friendless, fruitless, miserable. And I've only got an hour on here! And most painful and humiliating of all is that I can't bloody smoke! Oh my brothers..........

Forgive me....

Sorry I haven't been on for a while, O brothers and only friends, there is so very little to say. And yet so very much. Well, if you count whinging. And no, we have heard frack-all about the house. Why is God punishing me like this? I know I've hit rock-bottom when I start blaming The Man himself. But what is going on?

Went to Brick Lane yesterday to the Car Boot Art Fair. What a load of old shit! Where did all those people come from ? And that loud music! I'm just too old for all that shit. In the eighties I used to walk through Camden Lock without a qualm - and it was just as noisy and just as crowded. My poor mate and her boyfriend and mum were really going through it, standing under that gazebo all day, that loud noise penetrating them. While Boyfriend did charcoal portraits for £25. Didn't make a penny all day apparently. Why am I drawing comfort from someone else's misery?

Saw Peter Blake there. And Gavin Turk. The only two contemporary artists I really know.
Wanted Peter Blake's autograph. Too scared to ask! Forget what an old man he is now.

Got the hell out of there as soon as bloody possible. What a shit-hole!

Son announces at bloody 8 o'clock tonight that he has to do a powerpoint presentation for tomorrow. For this Critical Thinking thing he's on. The little bugger, leaving something like that at the last minute. Was furious with him. So once again someone else hogs the computer and does a big project that eats into Adult time. Can't remember where husband's gone - a brothel probably. Or an opium den. He's probably at Brick Lane.

Cat's birthday today. She's 3 years old. The little cow didn't like her new basket or her card or her catnip toy. Ungrateful brat! Worse than the bloody kids!

Going to Brentford tomorrow. Don't ask me why. I just feel it calling me somehow.