One imagines, Dear Reader, that you are familiar, even if only from an observational point of view, with the ‘Big Dipper.’ Not the mere buttock clenching rides of the past, but the gob shuddering, tiny bit of wee escaping, white knuckle rides of today…
For it is here that you find Lovely One today. One has chugged in a stately manner up the very nigh vertical slope of hope and is now teetering on the cusp of the plummet of despair…
There will be no refreshing flume-like splosh into cool fresh water at the bottom for Lovely One, but an almost immediate immersion into a bottomless vat of shite.
For: come the end of June, One will have no ‘fee-paying’ guest and therefore, since you selfish bastards spend all your money on food and leccy instead of art, NO FECKING INCOME WHAT-SO-FECKING-EVER.
Well, not quite abs nothing as Aged P has stepped up to the plate and is sending One ten quid a week to avoid absolute starvation. Oh, that, and a Marks and Spencer voucher to the value of twenty five quid. That’s really fecking handy when One is financially embarrassed – an M&S voucher! What does the daft old bat think One is going to do with that? Buy some big pants fer fecks sake!!
AND HOW FECKING EMBARRASSING – having food parcels sent by One’s Aged P, fer fecks sake!
But then, One did support the whole lot of them from the age of nineteen for the passing of many a moon and, after all, that’s what family is for: getting money off!!
Anyway, being in a state impossibly high spirits, given the approaching shite, (entirely due to the removal of the Prozac and Pinot diet) One is unable to get much kip of late.
One has reorganised the truckle bed into a different corner and draped a Nottingham lace tablecloth over the front window (not that One would deny any old perv the miniscule amount of satisfaction that he might gain from catching One in One’s vest and pants) and it has afford One a muted glow within the lair.
‘Why haven’t I ever seen you in the daylight Blanche?’ springs to mind…
You know, Dear Reader, Mitch speaking to Blanche DuBoir in ‘A Streetcar named Desire.’
Well, that’s One, that is. Best viewed behind the veil of a lace cloth from under the softening glow of a paper lantern. Even then One bets Stanley Kowalski wouldn’t even bat a gonad.