Well that's alright then

Saw Paul again yesterday, for the first time he announced he'd be hosting a small soiree for the purpose of consuming large amounts of absinthe.

How frightfully recherche of him, indeed.

He's survived, having done things moderately properly and relatively sensibly. He eschewed the whole flame thing, deeming it imprudent given the convivial but ever so young company he was in.

Now his parents are back and only mildly disappointed in his behaviour and the state of their house. Which just proves how lame he is. Nothing burned, nothing important broken. The vacuum cleaner, unused but also undefiled.

Kids these days! And they're going to be running this country in twenty years time, God help all who remain on board at that time.

So much crap

So much crap, so little time to wrap it up in tidy parcels for disposal here.

First of all the fiasco of the camp. The offspring sent off with a suitcase of totally inappropriate clothing, because he knows best. What a fucking moron he is. If she doesn't come back to us with pneumonia we'll be fortunate.

I've spent most of this week seething and angry at everything including myself for not having the spine to tell the fucker to, well, fuck off. I just wish he'd drop dead. So much. And he's going into a pauper's grave in a cardboard box no matter what happens after the dire straits to which he's reduced us by his irresponsibility.

Then this week, which is supposed to be the first of my two week's of annual holiday I've been up at some god awful hour of the morning, being a trained monkey then coming back here and having to spend hour after hour after interminable hour in the fucker's company. No wonder I've drunk so much this week. I've drunk heroically for England. Sad to think that not so long ago I was going days that stretched into weeks without touching a drop. Stuck within these four walls with only him and his dreary conversation, drinking copious quantities has been about the only thing to do.

Then on Wednesday I flipped. The previous two days I'd done half shifts. Wednesday I did a whole shift. Four thirty in the morning is an uncivilised time to eat, so I didn't. I went up to work on a tidal wave of coffee, then hit the wall at around 10:30 when my blood sugar levels plummeted. I staggered on to 2:00pm on a fist full of sweet biscuits. I hadn't even had a couple of hours respite, as I had enjoyed the previous two days, between my return and his. No, he was right there in my face determined to inflict his company on me.

The only scrap of consolation I could find in the situation was that I wouldn't have a repeat performance on the following day because he had plans to go out. Except the indolent fucker missed his train and hung around like the awful stench he is. Hours and hour and more hours of him, again.

The one job he could have done to make me feel better about him not fucking off was the one job he conspicuously ignored. I could only lock myself away, stick my fingers in my ears and sing to my self.

Even today he was around when he shouldn't have been, coming back to get some things that he'd forgotten. Now I'm just waiting for the dread sound of his footfall and his heavy hand on the back door.

I'm not quite suicidal and I'm not quite murderous, but I've felt at time this week like I normally only feel when I'm being racked by an hormonal surge once a month.

Now where did I put that rat poison? Just kidding. Just.

Thank god that's over ... or is it?

Well I've done it. I finished HP&TDH, on Sunday morning. And was too ill yesterday to admit that I've now read ALL of them.

The first four were given to the offspring by the paternal grandparents when the thing was really taking off and they saw it as some sort of obligatory rite of passage to be steeped in the Lore of Harry Potter. It was a few years before the offspring could be persuaded away from neurotic trains and onto wizards and we heroically read the lot to her.

Unfortunately then the series really started to take a darker, more grown up hue. As ever she was slightly behind the HP curve. So while His Lordship and I continued to appreciate the story telling, if little else, the offspring became somewhat detached - and she hasn't even evinced the slightest interest in the sixth installment let alone this latest one.

As usual it was excessively long. Not one of the books contained anything to justify being longer than the first three were. I rather hope that one day someone will come along to do a damned fine editing job on the final four; to do so would almost inevitably sharpen the focus and lift the narrative tempo which often sags almost fatally through the middle stages of each installment.

No spoiler here - the ending was pretty much inevitable and the key ingredient to explain it all was all integral to one character I successfully identified, but so I suspect did millions of other readers. Yes some died, but others survived and whatever we might have been led to believe the way is open for more.

I had lamented not going back and working through the entire JKR oeuvre before setting out on No. 7 but by the time I realised I should it was too late. The new book would have been sitting about the house luring me to the space between its covers the way a siren lures the condemned sailor to the rocks. And now I find I'd only have upset myself anyway. On Sunday I set myself to the task of assembling the books so that I'd now re-read the lot. And I can only find four of them: Books 2, 3, 5 and 7. His lordship 'thinks' he might have one of them in his room but that still leaves three gone the way of all things that are valuable. Trashed.

This served as a fine pretext for me doing my nut, raving and ranting and reducing the offspring to tears. She's now consoling herself with her playstation console. If the weather continues to be this miserable throughout the holidays she will be one very happy bunny. Even I can't insist that she spend all day out in howling gales and driven north sea rains.

Any hoo, I got the vacuum cleaner under the beds I have access to (or would access without a full bio-hazard suit - that bed is a problem entirely of his making and he can sort it), through out bags of rubbish.

Perhaps 'twas the strain of all that housework led me to feeling so poorly yesterday?

What I did yesterday

Mothers are not allowed to be ill. This is one of those immutable Laws of Nature. So I got out of bed yesterday. Then I went back. Then I got up again, and went back. And so it went on. All day. I must have got out of bed fifty times. Even His Lordship noticed I wasn't looking well. I know this because at 9:00pm after the entire day spent getting out of bed and going back again he had the grace to concede: "God, you look awful." Which capped off an awful day perfectly.

Mind set (part 1)

The state of his room is a genuine puzzle. I truly don't understand. For about the last couple of years I've ascribed the behaviour to a kind of extreme passive aggression.

"Please clean up your room." [I want you to clean up your room.]

"Yes, I will." [But I won't because that will annoy you.]

"Please, I asked you to clean your room. It is filthy. When are you going to do it? [You lazy fucker, get up there and clean your room. NOW!]

"Yes, I will. I know. I will get around to it/I've started." [Get off my back you bitch, but not too quickly because I'm enjoying seeing you upset about this. And I'll show you the extent to which you can get me to do anything, however reasonable that might be.]

This has been going on for ever, or perhaps it just feels like that. He is the most miserable bastard alive and I wish he would just die. Drop dead. I'd love it. Telling my daughter that her father had popped his clogs wouldn't be fun, but she's seen me curled up in distress at his antics. She's caught him taking money from her Christmas/Birthday cards. She knows he isn't perfect.

Fishing expedition

I'm married. The man I'm married to is a serial prop finder - these are women who sleep with him, after he's convinced them he's trapped in a miserable marriage, his wife doesn't understand, blah, blah...

I don't particularly care who it is. It used to be someone out of town, but she's moved on so who is it? Just from time to time, when I haven't anything better to do, I turn possible candidates over in my mind.

In a town this size there must be a certain number of women prepared to put out for the going rate, but I believe he's more resourceful than that. I believe he'd also prefer to spend what cash he has on booze then women.

So it follows he's conned some poor bitch into giving it to him on a promise, or else she can't do better than him. There are plenty of potential candiates for Bit on the Side-in-Chief. I spent the evening baiting one of them.

I didn't enjoy myself quite as much as I'd imagined.