The post Christmas sales

Having spent a strange Christmas with my cousin Eleanor I've been grateful for some time off to relax in my new flat. This afternoon, prior to the rain starting I walked into town to go sales shopping, despite it still being the school holidays. There have been two recent murders in this area, it's worrying and I've no doubt it will have an effect on rental/sales figures, however there's nothing I can do and renting elsewhere will be too much of strain on my humble EO salary.

Town was gaudy - groups of shrieking teenagers thronged the pedestrianised street and the motley collection of stalls and rides made it even worse. I was perplexed by the arrival of the 'Roast Hut' - a pink shed containing a rotissery and a sweaty man selling huge baps full of steaming meat. I managed to pick up my items from Boots - make up if you please - I've decided that 2012 is the time I'm going to meet Mr Right.

What a to-do!

Well, my name's Margaret and I haven't written for ages for a myriad of reasons - the most important being that until recently I've been living with various friends prior to finding myself a new flat to rent. Roger Reynolds aka Maurice Dumbarton has done a bunk with the money and stock of his former shop and leaves a number of people hugely out of pocket. Although he was strange I still miss that man - his sense of humour combined with a lovely head of hair still make me smile.

Onwards an upwards I suppose. My new 'pad' is located above a cafe and I'm still finding my feet. I suppose the industrial smell of gravy annoys me at times and the huge vat of custard which simmers away all day makes me heave but otherwise it's nice to find a cosy home. I am spending Christmas at Eleanor's house, it should prove exciting.

I reall should write more....

...but I'm lazy and I don't. Sadly I have just been looking on the M&S site to see the reviews of their £18 cardigans - size up apparently the rule. Their skinny cords are also popular, one contributor stated that 'corduroy is the best fabric for trousers' well, personally I couldn't agree more.

Right, so what's happening with me? Well, I'm still living above the shop, Roger's acting more and more strangely these days. He's looking forward to the fireworks display in a couple of weeks though as it's one of the Rotary Club's most impressive nights. He's asked me along to accompany him again but after last time I'm more than a little anxious. I hated the dress, as for his behaviour during the dessert course, well I won't go into detail, but really...

Boring 2011

Sorry for not keeping up a regular schedule of writing this blog, I can only explain it by my complete indolence. Anyway life remains interesting - Roger's currently in negociations to open another shop and wants me to manage it, however I don't really wish to leave the security of my job in the civil service to dip my toe into the bath of uncertaintly.

I managed to purchase a first batch ticket for Boring 2011, a wonderful conference that I'll no doubt find interesting because as somebody once said 'I take pleasure in the most mundane aspects of life.'. Cruel but fair.

I'm back!

Yes, I'm back and it feels good. Sorry for not writing before, I've been busy with loads of things and the blogging is something which has fallen by the wayside slightly but no more! Did I tell you that I'm now a member of a choir? I am and it meets every Tuesday night, it's huge fun and performing's wonderful.

I'm still living (and sometimes working) above the shop, I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with it sometimes, as I do with the proprietor, Roger. He's been a bit off since I shunned his advances at a Rotary Club function but he just isn't my cup of tea. Oh well, I'd better practice my scales before tomorrow....

Friday morning's all right for blogging

I'm on leave today so I'm spending the morning pottering around the flat and the afternoon working in the shop. I am becoming criminally addicted to vanilla lattes, they're very moreish and Roger has a Gaggia machine in the shop because he 'can't bear that instant crap!' Apart from working, I can't think what to do with myself this weekend, Emma's all very well but is taking her break up with Connor very badly indeed - her voodoo doll representation last week was quite scary and I've suggested that she seek professional help if these feelings continue.

Eleanor rang earlier, apparently she had a lovely day out yesterday and celebrated Sebastian's birthday on the various public transport systems he so loves. I can't imagine having children, it must be a terrible bind and the mess they leave behind - no wonder Eleanor's house always looks like the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina!

Roger and the OddDealers

Roger approached me the other day to ask a favour - apparently he wants someone to accompany him to the annual OddDealers [a local trade association] dinner which is scheduled for mid-September. I agreed as long as I could choose a suitable dress from the shops and he'd buy me a new pair of evening shoes as I very much doubt Birkenstocks would fit the bill.

Since the failure of his one man show 'Roger The Raconteur' he's been very subdued - even his personal tuition service work is drying up - there are far fewer young men leaving his flat in the evening then there used to be, which is a shame. When I asked him what he taught he stated 'business acumen and personal grooming' which is a rather strange thing to be teaching in this day and age but I suppose it takes all sorts. They must engage in a fair amount of role play scenarios because I hear some rather bizarre noises emanating from the flat whilst he's teaching.

Emma's coming over later - the awful Connor's finally dumped her so she'll require a shoulder to cry on. I've bought two bottles of wine and three pipes of Pringles which should oil the wheels somewhat. I've even splashed out on a Wall's Vienetta which undoubtedly shows what a kind friend indeed I am. Hurrah for me!

Roger's Relics and The Riots

I am currently camping in Roger's flat during these terrible riots; luckily nothing's reached this far out yet but we're hoping it won't. Roger and I spent ages boarding up the front of the shop earlier, just in case. I can't believe people, I really can't, the country's getting much more lawless, water cannon the lot of them I say.

Roger's spare room is a tribute to Marilyn Monroe, Debbie Harry and David Hasselhoff, which as you may imagine, is a strange mixture. The queen sized bed has a satin bedspread with an image from The Seven Year Itch screen printed onto it, unfortunately something bad must have happened in a tumble dryer because Marilyn's face now resembles something out of Alien. Oh dear!

Eleanor rang to tell me that Polly had got involved with the rioters, so she's chucked her out. Good, the woman was a complete menace anyway.

Left to my own devices - I probably would

Sunday night - probably the most depressing evening of the week and doubly so for me tonight because today heralded the end of Wilf and I's relationship. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to get back together, we rather drifted into it I think, based on mutual loneliness. He suggested this morning that he wanted to rent out his flat and do voluntary work overseas, I thought that a good idea but when he didn't have a carefully worked out plan to show me I had serious misgivings. He also wished to live with me whilst between assignments, which I'm not altogether happy with.

It led to an inevitable row which, punctuated with a neighbour's annoying base boost music, made it a very miserable time indeed. I accused him of being directionless, lazy and inept, he countered that with the fact that I was 'frigid, stuck up and tedious.' Word such as these are difficult to retract and we ended up parting for good.

I have tried to cheer myself up tonight by measuring some clothes ready for re-sale; I'm also looking at the Roger's Relics website and have been rather tempted by their 'Scott and Charlene' wedding video - now that's a blast from the past

Father's visit

I've just packed Father off into a minibus, thank goodness. Despite swearing never to drink on the sabbath I've felt the need to pour myself a large Bailey's to cope with the stress involved. It went something like this:

Saturday, 13:48

Father arrives in a minibus emblazoned with 'Human Earthworm Sanctuary - serving the megadrile community since 2001' which was embarrassing in itself. He'd changed since I last saw him, he was wearing a lycra catsuit (wormsuit?), which teamed with beige slip ons and angora socks looked a little srange in the midsummer heat. I hurried him up to the flat where he sat on the sofa and demanded food; luckily I'd stocked up from the Co-op in advance so it wasn't difficult at first to sate his hunger. We discussed what was happening in the sanctuary - apparently there's a huge rivalry between the New Zealand Flatworm and the Earthworm community, the former being a predator of the latter. I must confess that his conversation was less than riveting so after an hour of this I switched on the television.

We spent the rest of the day in companionable silence and went to bed at 22:15, I'd made up the sofa and Father had my bed. I was woken at 02:16 by Roger who stated that he'd spied Father writhing around in the communal garden/backyard; I managed to tempt Father indoors with some dead leaves which seemed to do the trick.

Sunday was a complete disaster - Eleanor, Sebastian and Nick visited but were openly shocked by Father's condition. I saw Eleanor stifle laughter when Father started talking about soil consumption in great detail.

Weekends with Wilf

Despite the success of his Scout Pack's Gang Show a fortnight ago Wilf seems to be permanent feature in my flat these days; you'd think that the giddy excitement of Gant's Hill would draw him back, but oh no. He's had car trouble for ages, which is hardly surprising given the age of the vehicle - he wants me to drive it too but I just can't, you know my phobia.

I think it's being out of paid employment which is causing him stress, he's a resourceful man though and I fully expect him to succeed in his application for driving the local Mencap minibus. Roger has offered him some shifts in the shop, which he's gratefully lapped up; Wilf's even suggested that he give up his flat and move in with me, which is hardly romantic.

Romance - that's a funny notion. I think I really only felt it with Mr A, which is a sad indictment on the state of my love life. I like Wilf, I really do and enjoy his company, but it's not much deeper than that. I suppose I can't expect huge passionate affairs post forty but I thought I'd be more affected than this.

On a lighter note Father's written to me asking if he could take a short holiday from the Earthworm Retreat and stay with me for a few days. I agreed, how could I refuse a seriously deluded man? I'm slightly concerned that he'll have to remain moist at all times and as for eating his own body weight in food every day - it's just as well there's a Co-op over the road.

Poor Old Roger

I am writing this whilst Roger slumbers on my sofa - his one man show last night was a complete disaster. Firstly, he only sold ten tickets, five of those to his mother, Maureen and her cronies and the rest to me, Wilf, Eleanor and two tramps called, rather bizarrely Vladamir and Estragon, hopefully as a homage to Waiting for Godot.

The set was impressive, if nothing else. It consisted of a single flat behind Roger which was decorated in maroon flock wallpaper; he sat on a cherry red leather wing chair placed on a wilton rug, so I think he managed to nail the 'Gentlemans' Club' look if nothing else. He wore a blue silk smoking jacket, velvet trousers, spats, brown patent winklepickers, plus a silk shirt topped of with a mustard coloured cravat - his remaining hair was slicked back and he sported a monacle.

The evening started five minutes late with a strange buzz stage left, which was strangely miked up and ended with "don't wave that thing near me, you're not Keith Chegwin you know!" Roger managed to lift the mood with a slide show depicting various events in his life; I must confess that some of the pictures looked a little superimposed, especially the one depicting Roger meeting both the Pope and Nelson Mandela. Eleanor of course was almost in hysterics at this point, typical!

The musical element of the evening didn't go as well as could be expected either - Roger's rendition of Strangers in the Night was somewhat muted and the backing track to The Greatest Love of All disappeared in the second chorus so he was somewhat out on a limb. During the last number, Body Talk, Roger's mother and her friend started throwing Minstrels onto the stage which wasn't particularly pleasant, one old lady, Doris Murphy brought along some rotten fruit which caused a nasty stain on Roger's smoking jacket.

The audience Q&A section went badly too, Roger's mother piped up with "Why are you such a huge liar son?" Roger's riposte was "because I've learnt from the master, mother dear!"

After clearing up afterwards and forfeiting the £500 deposit Roger dissolved into tears in Eleanor's car. He spent the night on my sofa after drinking all of my Bell's Whisky. Wilf got bored after half an hour and bailed out.

Roger the Raconteur

After a short spell at the coast last week I return to my laptop refreshed and invigorated. Roger's in a terrible state, his one man show, Roger the Raconteur is scheduled to take place next Saturday night, but to date he's only sold 10 tickets and eight of those are to friends and family. Sometimes I think that Roger has rather a misplaced high opinion of his talents, a certain amount of self confidence is attractive, but arrogance isn't.

As usual I worked in the shop this morning and am pottering about this afternoon. Wilf's busy putting the final touches to the Scouts' Gang Show which is being performed next Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights in east London. Apparently the fire eating has been vetoed by health and safety and the magician's rabbits were eaten by a fox last week, so here's hoping it's all right on the night.

I've got my mind set on you....

I thought I'd take a week's leave to enjoy the heatwave, sadly it's gone to rats slightly, what with the thunder, lightning and generally being more than a little frightening (Gallileo!). Wilf is my almost constant companion these days, having left the Civil Service last Friday via an early severance package. I keep trying to persuade him to update his CV and send it out to interested parties but he's more concerned with organising the Scout's Summer Gang Show, which needs to surpass last year's Steven Speilberg extravaganza.

From viewing her blog it's clear that Eleanor's away on holiday; staying at her parents' holiday bungalow on the Kent Coast. Methinks I'll call her and see whether she requires any company, it must be quite lonely with only a pre-schooler for company. I'm sure Wilf's Golf can take the strain of the M2....

A new dawn?

Apologies for not writing for so long, as you can expect there have been quite a few things happening lately; the most important of which was Eleanor's estranged husband's funeral and the aftermath of that. I suppose, in retrospect, it went fairly well - the coffin was a size of a shoebox because that's pretty much all that was left of Roger once the hungry crocodile had had his fill. Helen Leckwith-Smith, Eleanor's mother-in-law kept raging 'why him? why him? He had his whole life ahead of him?’ I suppose she wasn’t hugely comforted by the crocodile skin bag which was granted to her in lieu of compensation by the reptile’s aristocratic owner? Sebastian and Eleanor were both very dignified; I noted that her new boyfriend Nick was at her side, which was supportive, although he did receive quite a few ‘daggers’ look from HLS.

Anyway, the upshot is that dearly departed Roger Cuthbert Cuffley had a huge mortgage protection plan on the property and the mortgage has been paid off. I’d expect his late ex-girlfriend’s family will try to stake a claim but Eleanor’s a strong woman, she’ll handle it.

Meanwhile Roger (Reynolds: my boss) is driving me mad with his constant rehearsing for his forthcoming show. I really don’t wish to hear Could It be Magic? Filtering through my flat ceiling at 7am! Hmm.

The aftermath

I'm currently looking after Eleanor's son, my second cousin Sebastian. He's a lovely boy and is watching Balamory and playing with his toys, which is nice. As for Eleanor herself, well she's taking it as well as expected and is visiting her mother-in-law and brother-in-law to discuss funeral arrangements today, she sees the solicitor next week.

Wilf's camping with his scout troupe today, they are going to Carrotty Wood in Kent, which is a Christian Site, so I'd expect loads of singing around campfires etc. I once saw a picture of Wilf dressed in long socks, short and a woggle, it was rather disturbing to be honest.

Roger's being very kind as usual; he's currently rehearsing his one man show - Roger the Raconteur, which he'll perform at the Suburbia Little Theatre in July. He's ordered a satin jumpsuit for the finale for which he's currently strengthening the seams in case of wear and tear. His last effort, which was apparently an all nude version of Billy Liar went down badly in Reigate and the terms of his probation were to keep away from all small to medium theatres outside the M25, luckily this production won't breach the terms, thank goodness!

Eleanor's Ex's Crocodile Catastrophe

I received a call at work from Eleanor's mother, my aunt Marsha stating that the former's estranged husband had been eaten by a crocodile whilst visiting a wealthy client's house over the bank holiday. The story is thus:

Roger Cuffley, in his official capacity as an Independent Financial Advisor often has to visit clients at their homes and the customer in question was Sir Reginald Donaldson, an eccentric millionaire with a huge house in Dorset who has his own private zoo consisting of big cats, crocodiles and ring tailed lemurs. Anyway, Sir Reginald invited Roger and his current girlfriend, lap dancer Sandii-Mae to stay with them over the bank holiday so that they could discuss ISAs, unit trusts, hedge funds and burlesque in the comfort of his country retreat.

All was well until after a boozy lunch Roger and Sandii decided to take a romantic row across the lake when they encountered a lump under the oar. Unfortunately this turned out to be Sir Reginald's prize crocodile, Andrew Aguecheek and he wasn't best pleased at being awoken from his slumbers and proceeded to consume the boat. Sadly hitting the beast with an oar and swearing it wasn't enough to save Roger and his beau and they were both consumed by the powerful creature. Apparently Roger was eaten first as Sir Andrew found Sandii's fake tan to be a little off putting.

Despite the screaming Sir Reginald didn't stir from his study as he was listening to a Richard Clayderman LP at full blast; the butler was too busy finishing the vintage port in the cellar and heard nothing either until too late. When Roger and Sandii didn't respond to the dinner gong a search party was sent out for them which discovered their horrible fate. The perpetrator, Andrew Aguecheek was lying dead near the lake with a strange expression on his reptilian flat face. The Police were called in, as were the RSPCA, the deaths of Roger and Sandii were confirmed as multiple injuries consistent with being eaten by a huge lizard and Andrew Aguecheek was poisoned by the silicone implants Sandii had inserted back in 2002 to boost her assets from a B to an E cup.

I will keep readers informed of any further developments regarding this terrible occurrence.

Ex and the Suburb

Today I woke up to the sight of Wilf offering me breakfast in bed, it was a nice gesture, although he slightly overcooked the scrambled eggs in my opinion. We breakfasted in companionable chatter until 10am when Roger knocked on the door, ostensibly to 'see whether everything was tickety boo'. I invited him in and introduced him to Wilf, despite sporting a kaftan Demis Roussous would be proud of Roger's very conservative when it comes to others' dress sense and almost immediately invited Wilf down to the shop to choose another outfit.

They were gone about half an hour or so so I used the time to tidy the flat. When they returned Wilf was sporting a pair of vintage faded Levi's 501s, a paisley print shirt and suede desert boots, I must confess that he looked rather dishy, especially as Roger had mussed up his hair with a little wax. I really think Roger's the Gok Wan of suburbia, I really do!

Roger made his excuses stating that he had a particularly difficult wasp nest to remove from the loft and departed. Wilf and I then walked into town and bought a few provisions, Caesar Salad and sparkling wine being amongst them. We did witness a family being apprehended for shoplifting whilst we were in Sainsbury's, but that's to be expected these days. After a fantastic and somewhat boozy lunch Wilf led me in the bedroom and slowly but surely popped open the buttons on his 501s in a saucy but amusing manner. I think readers can guess what happens left, I'll not elaborate, this is not a Mills and Boon racy novel.

I am writing this on the laptop whilst staring at my ex having a post orgasm snore fest. A quick look through his bag found a rather strange tome - namely The Dorking Kingdersley Book of 'Getting off with One's Ex'. Right.

Wilf's Woes

Wilf rang me yesterday whilst I was at work, from the tenure of the conversation he'd clearly been drinking and was a little slurred. The upshot was that he invited himself to my flat today and decided to unburden himself to me (metaphorically, not sexually, I'm not really into that kind of thing these days and there's the chance of staining to think about.)

He arrived at 10:30 in his new car, well I say new, but he's sold the Audi and replaced it with a 1998 VW Golf - which he says handles well with all the features of German reliability, but I'm pretty sure looks like a huge tin can on wheels. He's taken the Queen's shilling, well the redundancy package anyway and will be leaving the Department in late June. When asked about his future plans he was extremely vague and said that he'd thought of becoming a freelance beekeeper in the home counties. I sniffed at this idea and suggested that he begin updating and sending out his CV asap but he just ignored me and started complaining that people who worked were 'selling themselves cheap' and 'he was above such things.' He consumed the best part of two bottles of wine far too quickly which caused him to fall asleep on the sofa, therefore I've taken the laptop to my bedroom and am writing this as he snores away.

I suppose he'll be over the limit and unable to return to suburban Essex tonight. Great, I was thinking about watching the latest edition of Midsomer Murders tonight whilst consuming an entire Vienetta, my plans are now scuppered by a drunken ex-boyfriend. Great!

Queen's Birthday

God save the Queen! Well that's what I think anyway as I'm on leave on Tuesday because of our gracious majesty and can therefore do another splendid shift in Roger's Relics or RR as I'm going to call it from now on. Work was a little boring today as it was the precursor to the bank holiday weekend and most staff seem to use this as an excuse to skive off, but not me, I was still classifying files until 5pm thank you very much. Eleanor said that single people were a bit sad and should try and understand how difficult it is to be a working parent, but I disagree - it's the individual's choice to have children as it's my decision to remain a spinster. I like that term, I think I'll launch a web campaign to reclaim it as a positive statement of splendid singledom.

Instead of alcohol tonight I popped into the Sainsbury's Local and bought myself a large bottle of sparkling grape juice; I don't see the point of drinking just because it's a Friday. I also purchased two individual apple pies and a set of scissors which were discounted to the princely sum of £1.25. I think I enjoy living alone, it gives me fantastic scope to be odd in the privacy of my own flat. I only wish I didn't have to witness the strange noises eminating from Roger's apartment last night but the rent's cheap so I can't really complain.

Margaret's Musings

Yesterday I took the day off work and went shopping in the morning; people in this suburb were certainly angry and I heard a terrible row over a parking space erupt whilst I was en route to Sainsbury's for my Caesar salad and lemonade Friday treat. I checked out good old M&S, since Roger commented on my fashion sense I've been less than impressed by the Classic collection, finding it a little too old for my forty one years. I therefore passed by the viscose/polyester mix skirts and sensible blouses and headed straight for Per Una but decided not to purchase anything as that's a step too far in the other direction if you get my meaning.

As I had some free time in the afternoon I asked Roger if I could sort out the stockroom, he agreed and we set about classifying some of the books he'd bought at a summer fete a couple of weeks ago. Roger was wearing a pale yellow velour tracksuit, I'd like to say that it suited him but that would be a lie as he resembled a huge mis-shapen banana split. He was still riveting company though and hearing his story of how he could have made it big in the fashion world but couldn't travel on public transport which meant that he couldn't take a front row seat at London Fashion Week. Such a shame! Mind you, with his bizarre fashion sense I don't imagine John Galliano is shaking in his shoes (well not about that anyway!)

Polly wafted around the shop dressed in floaty polyester and leggings. I think she's trying to evoke the spirit of Kate Bush, not that Kate's dead of course but she did grow up in this suburb and left as soon as humanly possible, as did every other famous or semi-famous person. Polly said that she's trying the channel the spirit of the late Jim Morrison on Sunday night at the local bapist church; I wish her luck.

Shop Girl

I'm typing my blog whilst sitting up at the counter of Roger's Relics it's not particularly busy and I can look busy but distant, a talent all shop assistants seem to employ in my opinion. I've worked here for a couple of weeks now and every day is different, which is great. This morning I sorted through a load of clothes Roger had bought at an auction, there was an interesting array of garments including some vintage jeans, patterned shirts and jersey dresses. Roger kindly asked if I'd like to choose a work outfit from stock as he wasn't sure how my polyester mix trousers and blouse combo would entice customers to buy his stock. Therefore I took a pair of jeans and a floral print shirt into the back office and tried them on; despite Roger saying that he was minding the shop I got the distinct impression that he was watching because his arm appeared around the door with a jazzy skirt and jumper combo at some point.

Anyway, that aside, I cope with such eventualities because I'm used to perverts. A weekend in Italy and work experience in the police taught me to be tolerant of such strange behaviour. Polly's coming in to relieve me at 1pm so I'll have the whole afternoon to myself, which is great as I've got to re-classify my bookshelf and de-bobble all of my cardigans. I must admit that I'm enjoying expanding my wardrobe, I don't usually wear jeans but I think, on reflection, they suit me.

New flat, new fun!

In case you were wondering, the move went really well and I'm now happily ensconced in my pied a terre. Roger's been amazing and has even allowed me to connect to his wireless broadband which is very decent of him, I must say. He's even granted me a week's grace in regard to working in the shop to 'get myself sorted' as he said. Polly has moved into Eleanor's and I haven't heard any whingeing yet so I'm guessing that all is progressing as it should.

Let me describe my new 'pad' if I may. Entrance is via the Tradesman's (no smutty remarks please!) and the external stone steps lead up to my own front door which opens into a narrow hallway. Now I know it's always the way with rental flats but why on earth do landlords allow their tenants to choose their own decor? Therefore the hallway is painted bright red and as such, resembles the basement/descent into hell aptly shown in the Amytyville Horror. The living/dining room is carpeted in a bowls club green and painted a natty apple shade and the bedroom's a vivid blue with a 1980s squiggly carpet. I've left the best to last which is the bathroom - somebody was clearly a fan of aquariums because its turquoise hue and plaster seamonsters really set the room off, as does the plastic shower curtain with an embellished dancing goldfish design.

I'm now nipping over to the Co-op to choose my dinner; sometimes living alone has its benefits - I never have to stomach Mother's grey mince 'n' mash combo ever again! Yay!

Polly put the kettle on

Eleanor agreed to interview Polly as a potential lodger after I persuaded her that she'd have trouble paying the mortgage if she didn't jump at the chance. Anyway, yesterday at 8:07pm she turned up, three bottles of wine in hand (the cheapo three for a tenner offer if I'm not mistaken...) and proceeded to be interviewed. Apparently Polly was born in 1985 and named after a pack of tights her mother removed two hours prior to her birth. She had a very sad childhood which consisted of living in a series of rented flats whilst her mother sent all of their benefit money to various donkey charities. As soon as she could she left home and enrolled on a BTEC National in Fashion which led to a raft of tedious retail jobs prior to meeting Roger at a pattern cutting conference in Crewe.

When we asked why she was leaving the flat Polly tried to dodge the question but she advised me not to light too many candles around Roger, advice which I found both odd and alarming. Eleanor was more blatant and asked whether he was a pervert, Polly merely stated that she felt safe with him but it was best to buy him four bakery scones on a Saturday afternoon and usually that did the trick.

After a bottle of wine Eleanor seemed her normal drunken self and agreed to rent her spare room to Polly for a three month trial period. I don't know but I think Polly and I will become good friends, despite the fifteen year age gap.

Sun, wine and company

Yesterday was a bit of an impromptu party, well if you include guests such as Roger R, his employee, shop assistant Polly plus Emma and the awful Callum. We sat in Eleanor's back garden and enjoyed the unseasonally sunny weather with a few bottles of wine and some party food. Roger looked like a cross between Roger Moore in Octopussy crossed with Michael Cane in Zulu, his strange pith helmet-style hat and safari suit combination was bizarre to behold. It was nice to meet Polly too, apparently she's vacating the flat I'm soon to occupy and is looking for a room to rent in the vicinity - she said this loudly near Eleanor a number of times but the latter never really took the bait.

Looks wise Polly's a bit of a mixed bag, she's medium height and build with long brown hair and sparkly hazel eyes. Personality wise, well, she's a little eccentric to say the least, stating that she's a huge fan of tidybearded TV star Noel Edmonds - apparently she wanted to be on Deal or No Deal so badly that she parked a static carvan outside the studios for a week until she was forcibly moved on. She's also a poet and somewhat of a fan of creative writing, she's promised to let me see some of her work in the next few weeks which is kind of her, if nothing else.

Emma and Callum turned up at about 4pm, they'd clearly been arguing and he was a little worse for wear. I don't know what it is about men around here but at the mereest hint of sun they're removing their tops without shame - Callum's torso looks like a pasty lump of stilton, awful! He's also a very unpleasant man who loves the sound of his own jokes but can't take people laughing about him. When I asked him how his Dennis Waterman tribute band was working out he gave me a snarky reply, which wasn't called for. Eleanor soon cut him dead and they left soon after.

Roger and Polly stayed until 10pm. Roger's stories about his time as the potential Olympic badminton hope for the 1976 Montreal Olympics was hilarious, if not a little false. Personally I couldn't imagine his lumbering frame reaching out for a shuttlecock, but as Mother rightly says, I can be a little hasty at times.

Good Friday

Good Friday lived up to its name because I received a call from Roger saying that he'd checked out my references and was happy to rent me the flat at the agreed price of £500pcm. I officially move in on the 1st May, despite it being on a Sunday but Roger's a huge fan of strict rules, apparently it's the elite SAS training coming out. So that means sorting out the clearance of our old house, which is very sad but it's clearly karma and I should move on.

In some ways the 1st May couldn't come soon enough for me; Eleanor's a convivial host but I'm getting fed up with young Sebastian's moods, he got very angry when he couldn't play swingball earlier on and insisted on slamming the racket down in the style of John McEnroe. Eleanor later took him to the woods which allowed me enough time to clean the bathroom with meticulous precision - I find a toothbrush is the best instrument for such a job.

Roger's Relics

Less than an hour after I'd left a message on Roger Reynolds' answerphone on Saturday evening I received a call from him asking to meet me on Sunday afternoon which I duly did. After letting Eleanor know his address and telephone number for safety I met him at the closed shop. It's a strange place filled with second hand treasures from a number of periods plus a large clothing section.

Roger himself was a large, portly gentleman wearing a mustard coloured safari jacket and slightly mis-matched pair of lovat cords. He sported a rather obvious ginger wig on his hair which I'm sure would have moved if I'd offered it a saucer of milk. He was avuncular and jovial though and I was made to feel most welcome. Whilst he was brewing up a 'proper' cup of tea using tea leaves, a china tea service and a plate of garibaldi biscuits he started to tell me a little about himself.

Apparently he was a widower, his wife Sylvie having died a year ago of a terminal case of Scrofula which Queen Elizabeth II refused to lower herself to cure. He'd had a varied career, having served in the SAS for many years with distinction which led to him receiving a vast array of medals which were unfortunately stolen by a visiting vagabond back in 1987. This than led to him starting his first business which was a travelling burger van which failed when his wig fell into a vat of candyfloss and scared the Mayor during a school fete. His second business as an independent slacks salesman also ground to a halt during the nationwide polyester famine of 1998. He mentioned a series of other businesses but I'd lost the will to live by then and feigned interest in the collection of spoons which filled one of the walls.

The upshot is that Roger showed me the flat which was part-furnished, airy and light and at £500pcm an absolute steal. I provisionally accepted which gave Roger time to draw up a formal contract and check out my references (Eleanor and James Pincett, my head of Division). I also stated I'd be happy to help out in the shop, where needed as I had absolutely no social life to speak of and enjoyed the company of the general public.

New Beginning (Mumba Senya - sic)

Well, my relationship with Wilf is finally over, the Weaver family residence is crumbling into the ground with a bad case of subsidence so it's time to firm up the old upper lip and get on with it. The first thing I did was to find alternative accommodatation, living with cousin Eleanor's all very well but Sebastian's an annoying wake up call every morning at 6am and I'm heartily sick of watching CBeebies on a loop - how she deals with the tedium of motherhood is beyond me!

I moseyed down to the local shops which surround the station to look at the small ads outside the newsagent and what did I spy: well this:

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Wanted: Professional (NO DHSS!) tenant for one bedroomed flat above 'Roger's Relics' - a second hand shop with distinction.

Rent: £500pcm which includes some shifts in the shop (Saturday, late night Thursday)

References required, please apply to Mr Roger Reynolds, 4 Station Parade, Surburbia, SB2 8UQ, telephone 020 8433 4598 (answerphone)

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Readers - I called him and left a message - I'll keep you informed!

Chez Eleanor

I'm still staying with Eleanor, she's a treasure during such a difficult time, despite bunging up her Dyson with a large sock earlier rendering it useless for cleaning. I have made a decision: I'll return to work tomorrow, there's no point mooning about, life goes on and there's plenty to be done. Wilf visited earlier - he's very sweet and explained that Mr A's parents could claim some of the money they paid out for the memorial service back against the cost of his funeral, it's a bit like a 'buy one memorial service, get a funeral half price' wierd, but true. Mr A senior worked for one of the large insurance firms for many years and is an expert in such matters.

I heard from Father, apparently the house subsidence is getting worse and it looks as if we'll all be forced to move out soon. Apparently he can't help being a human earthworm and has formed his own online support group 'HumanEarthwormsAnon' with inclusive 12-step programme. So far he's attracted 56 hits and one request for membership. He's thinking ahead and plans to hold an awayday in a large vivarium in Swindon but I said that he'd have to think about the practical aspects first, especially as earthworms tend to be hermaphrodites, which could compromise the toilet arranagements somewhat.

Cotton Cellular Pants

House update: more cracks have appeared, it's being jacked up as I type. I'm still looking to move out when I can find suitable alternative accommodation.

Mr A/X update: I tried telephoning him the other day, here's what happened:

Butler: "Good afternoon, Prentiss Mansions, Rosebury speaking."
Me: "Erm, good afternoon, may I speak with Mr A please?"
Butler: "I'm sorry Madam but the gentleman concerned is otherwise engaged on important top secret Government business abroad."
Me: "Right, it can't be that secret then if you're conveying such a message?"
Butler: "Correct Madam but maybe I'm issuing a double bluff."
Me: "Yes indeed, thank you and goodbye."

Work update: I move to the London HQ of the Department for Administrative Affairs (DAA)on Monday morning. Wish me luck!

That sinking feeling

We received a letter from the surveyor this morning, apparently if Father continues to burrow under the house then we'll have to move because the subsidence will prove too much. That has hugely worried me, Mother's started moving her things out already. I sat Father down in the dining room and gave him a stern talking to but apparently he can't stop his behaviour; I have therefore suggested that he seek professional help from the National Society for Human Earthworms (NSHE).

Wilf is busy this weekend selling the Audi to prepare for his 'austerity year'. He is planning to purchase a 1998 VW Golf, heavens why, I don't know, he always seems to have enough ready cash on him when we're out and about. He's also sold his double decker bus 'Mavis' to an enthusiast in Bolton, he'll miss her but he can scarcely afford the apolstory cleaner (so he says...)

Appraisal Angst

Now don't get me wrong, I don't hate this time of year but appraisals aren't particularly pleasant, are they? Now you'll be pleased to learn that my former line manager left the organisation when they had their last clear out (or redundancy package as it's better known) so for the last six months I've worked for Stanley. I wouldn't describe Stanley as odd exactly, but he's 52 and still lives with his parents. He does have a lovely line in V neck jumpers and slacks which are always an inch too short in the leg and very high waisted. Stanley's strange habits include whilstling the death march under his breath, eating all of the cheese during office buffets and setting key articles in The Economist to recorder music at lunchtime.

He said that I was doing very well (not in a Young Mr Grace way of course)and that I had great potential if only I'd 'seize the moment'. Maybe I'd be more willing to 'seize' something or other if my job was safe or there was a pay rise in the offing, but as there clearly isn't any light at the end of this metaphorical tunnel I think I'll stay put. Hrrrpppphhhh!

When I returned home tonight there was a strange package waiting for me in the hallway. When opened it consisted of an authentic fox fur wrap, a Twenties style 'flapper' dress, a pair of Mary Jane style shoes, silk stockings, a brown bobbed wig and a feather fascinator. There was also a large box of Fortnum and Mason chocolates and a mongrammed business card from 'he who shan't be named'. Perhaps things are looking up for me?

The aftermath of Ann Summers

What kind of woman would attend an Ann Summers Party? Well readers, I can confirm that, as of last night, I am indeed one of them. Cousin Eleanor hosted it in her now, slightly denuded house which is due to be refurbished and sold in the next few months if Mother's insider gossip is true. Eleanor herself was wearing a sleeveless, rather low cut top teamed with jeans one size too small, but heartbreak's clearly having a beneficial effect on her figure as her muffin top isn't quite as pronounced as it once was and her bingo wings now resemble discarded chamois leather - perhaps I should lend her my 'Pilates for Toning' DVD? Meow.

Jane Turner-Smith (JTS), Eleanor's neighbour co-hosted the event and brought along all of the saleable merchandise which consisted of a great deal of strange 'adult' toys of varying size and shapes plus some dress up outfits mostly constructed of polyester and nylon. JTS is a strange woman, half hard-nosed businesswoman and half cat-obsessed pervert, which I think you'll agree is a heady mix? After a few glasses of wine she confided to the group that her and her husband like to dress up as moggies in the evening to enable them to crawl around the floor whilst eating catnip and rubbing themselves against giant scratching poles. If that's not odd I don't know what is, but what could I say, my Father regularly dresses and takes on the characteristics of an earthworm? That would go down well in polite suburban circles and heaven knows, I'd never be able to look the Saturday boy in the Co-op in the eye again if that was ever revealed.

After a few glasses of wine (which were all poured by Eleanor by the way) I began to relax and enjoy myself. I purchased an 'Open All Hours' ("G-G-G-G Granville!") 'honeypot' for Wilf's use which I'll not describe in any detail, but rest assured if you're interested the Ann Summers website will provide a full and frank overview of the aforementioned product. I also purchased a neck massager, as suggested by Eleanor which will no doubt sooth my occasional sciatica. It's nice of her to point out that the company don't just sell 'adult products', they're there to improve the nation's physiological health, which is good to know.

The early bird catches the worm

Well, in my case if I did then I'd be manhandling Father, which is never a good thing. Mother relayed yesterday that the surveyor had given his professional opinion and warned that if Father continued with his excessive burrowing in the Spring then the house would be rendered unsafe in a matter of months. This is obviously worrying news and something we'd like to avoid, despite disliking our noisy neighbours intensely at times. I've lived in this homely semi-detached property since I was eight years old and I don't really want to be forced out by the stupidity of an old man who's clearly as mad as a box of frogs - or should that be an entity of earthworms?

I'm at home this weekend as Wilf's alloted the whole weekend to the unenviable task of writing staff reports, completing his Census return and sorting out his small change(?); I'm hoping the latter isn't a euphamism for something seedier than first imagined?

As for me, well I rose at 6am, carried out a series of pilates stretches, jogged around the block, tidied the dining room and showered so I'm raring to go. Laziness is abhorrent to me, my hands quite dance around from lack of occupation at times. I am due to visit cousin Eleanor tonight as she's cheered up a fair bit and is hosting an Ann Summers party to swell her coffers, so to speak. I don't know a great deal about this Ann Summers person, so I'll Google her. I think it's a make up/clothing company or something?

*Stop Press* Oh my goodness? Really? How can I possibly sit around with a group of women and discuss sexual contraptions all night? This is too much to bear!

Day out and the news about the house

Today I decided to take a day off and explore the delights of Little Venice. I'm not sure if you know the area but it's situated around the Paddington district of London and takes in the Regent's Canal. Emma accompanied me and we had a wonderful time being guided around the streets and saw many lovely sights such as a house Madonna made an unsuccessful bid on, the block of flats where Dame Shirley Porter housed her supporters in the 'Homes for Votes' furore of the 1980s and where Edward Fox recycles his bottles.

Afterwards we happened upon a splendid public house called the Prince Alfred which has a rather strange construction - i.e. it contains small booths and to enter them you have to duck down in a rather Liliputian fashion. Whilst supping a drink or two we conversed with a charming gentleman from France named Jean-Claude who seemed rather too interested in the nature of our friendship; after a further drink of Asti Spumante we made our excuses and headed for the relative safety of the Bakerloo Line.

I received a message from the surveyor, he's visiting on Friday to assess the house. Here's hoping Father isn't lurking in the vicinity.

A strange lunchtime encounter

I was minding my own business whilst wandering out for lunch in the local market today when I received a short, sharp tap on the shoulder; when I turned around I spied a familiar face. This person urged me to follow them along one of the quieter side streets which are a feature of this particular London postcode. I think regular readers can guess who this person is but I can't write any more detail because this blog is seemingly morphing into a quasi-Spook-like entity. Although my readership is currently extremely limited (boo, hiss!), Big Brother may we watching me as I type and I'm not referring to that gawd awful Channel 4 programme either.

Despite being pronounced dead for the best part of a year, Mr X looked amazingly vibrant and dressed in [redacted] he looked sexy and mysterious. When I asked him how he'd know I was going to be in the vicinity at a particular time he answered: "Margaret, you always take lunch at 12:08 precisely to avoid the crowds, buy your cheese, ham and tomato seedy bap, browse the bookshop and still have enough time to return to your desk and search the internet. I can set my watch by you, you're a public servant and as such, change perplexes you."

He pressed a cream and gold embossed card into my palm which contained details of his current residence and contact details. To avoid detection should I need to meet/visit him in the short to medium term, he promised me that he'd send a suitable disguise via Registered Post. I'm glad he's so well-organised, it wouldn't be to be anything else in this day and age, would it?

Wilf's beloved Audi

This morning we went for a walk in nearby Epping Forest which Wilf likes to visit as it's apparently the place his parents conceived him way back in 1959. His Mother apparently used to joke about his 'love of bushes' which was akin to his late Father apparently [Mr Norman snr passed away many years ago after he was attacked by a swan whilst canoeing along a river and subsequently drowned.]

We enjoyed a delicious lunch of homemade pasta with a cheeky glass of white wine; whilst we were relaxing on the sofa Wilf 'tried it on' again and I didn't really fight him off as I thought I may as well concede sooner rather than later. After covering the sofa with a handy throw to guard against any unfortunate stains Wilf heard a disturbance outside the window followed by the sound of his car alarm shrieking. He grabbed his jeans and ran downstairs only to find that the 'youths' had stolen his hub caps once again but had run off as soon as he shouted at them. "That's another £100 down the drain." he lamented when he returned. Luckily the loss from his vehicle had dampened his ardour for another day at least!

We're planning to watch BBC2's coverage of World Book Night tonight, I'm excited already! I received a strange telephone call from Mother earlier, she truly believes that the house is sinking, she noticed that when deadheading the camellia bush outside the kitchen window. I said that I'd contact a surveyor on Monday.

Gansters' Mall

I'm staying with Wilf again this weekend as Mother's booked the house for a Mazola party, I haven't a clue what this entails exactly but all I know is that she required several bags of washing soda to clear up after the last one. We went out after work to a shopping centre near his flat called, rather stupidly 'Gangsters' Mall' - to make light of the area's reputation no doubt! Wilf's keen for me to change my image somewhat so steered me in the direction of trendy shops such as River Island and H&M but I wasn't comfortable in either as everything was too short, tight, wispy or just plain awful so it was with a glad heart that I managed to drag him into good old M&S. Although he's aware that I'm a huge fan of their knitwear and was admiring a selection of pastel coloured turtle necks, he insisted that I try on a canary yellow double breasted short jacket in Per Una. Now I'm all for change but Per Una is too racy for my personality. I did allow him upstairs to the lingerie section and made a concession to him with my choice of spotty bra and brief set.

After two long hours shopping plus a huge queue trying to leave the car park we grabbed a Chinese takeway and returned to the flat. He tried to get me to try on the new bra and knicker set but I wasn't having it and stated that I'd wear it but not without the additional layer of a towelling bathrobe to cover my modesty. I also sat on the opposite end of the sofa from him and am eyeing him up carefully as I type, lest he make a sudden lunge.

Sometimes it's difficult to maintain this frosty demeanour.

Birthday weekend and the aftermath

Wilf managed to entertain me all weekend by taking me on several London Walks including the 'Eccentric London Tour' which provided a wonderful overview of the weird and wonderful world of London Town. He also asked me to stay at his flat which is located in the wilds of the Essex part of the Central Line. I was pleased to see that he'd managed to keep up a good level of tidiness and hygiene but was slightly concerned that he hadn't changed his dishcloth for a while - Kim and Aggie would have a fit! He gave me a wonderful present of a pair of MBT boots which I've been humming and harring over for a while now so I can tone my bottom whilst I walk, which is a bonus in this economic climate.

Luckily I was put up in the spare room; I know that I've 'had relations' with him in the past but I can't be bothered nowadays as I'd have to re-iron my nightie afterwards which spoils the moment somewhat. Wilf's spare room is a little strange, it's got a distinct 80s vibe which consists of a black metal bedstead, dark ash units and matching curtains and duvet cover which Max Headroom would have been proud to own. On Sunday morning he knocked politely on the door, waited to I'd mumbled consent and tried to kiss me after proferring a copy of Essex on Sunday. If he'd offered the full broadsheet edition of The Sunday Times I may have consented, but a free paper? Dream on matey.

Wilf's job

Wilf was called into a meeting with his Director today and told (in no uncertain terms) to apply for the latest severance package. Wilf was rather shaken and by lunchtime and had to sit in the Civil Service Club for 96 minutes nursing a brandy balloon. I tried my best to comfort him but it's clear that his job has been cut from under him and as he's in such a specialised area [information architecture] it's likely that he'll not find a similar job in the public sector.

It hasn't been a great week to be honest, the council library nearest the Department is also due to close in September, which is very depressing because I love to read the latest best sellers whilst inhaling the scent of stale tramp. Joking aside, it's ridiculous how this Government is cutting essential things like libraries which are the liveblood of many a community. The Government say that they want to tackle key policies such as poverty and literacy, which are indelibly linked, but they go ahead and slash key services. I could start ranting on about the 'Big Society' but writing a public blog as a Government employee they'll send me to a remote part of North Wales and send a huge bouncy ball after me if I start revolting.

Rant over! It's my 41st birthday on Friday and Wilf and I have booked the day off to enjoy the delights of the metropolis.

Craft Fayres galore

Friday night was spent sharing a bottle of wine with cousin Eleanor and Emma; I'd much prefer the former wasn't quite so miserable but with her husband leaving her at New Year and with crippling mortgage payments she hasn't a great deal to smile about. Emma and me were amazed by some of her tales, apparently she's trying to find further evidence of her husband's infidelity by using Google maps to identify gentlemen departing various strip clubs in the Central/Greater London region. She's clearly mad.

Yesterday Wilf took me out and about in the Audi; he was his normal polite self but there's someting lacking - before we had some kind of chemistry but it seems to have dissipated since we were last 'walking out' together. We visited a craft fayre in Leyton, you'd think a London surburb served by the Central Line wouldn't be a natural location for such an event, but you'd be wrong. Call me foolish, but I can't stand standing around various stalls manned by people who believe beards can be a fashion statement and tie-dye is 'hip' trying to power sell me a windchime. Wilf bought me a rather nice silver ring though and a selection of joss sticks for his flat.

We lunched in a nearby Thai restaurant, which was pleasant. After sharing a bottle of 'Chardonnay' which tasted of acetone, he asked me back to his flat but I refused stating that I had to return home to re-talc Father's worm cast.

St Valentine's Day

I arrived at work at 9am today; at 9:30 Wilf walked into the office with a colourful pot plant, a splendid card, a huge box of chocolates and an invitation to lunch. Unfortunately, due to the timing of our reunion he was unable to book anywhere for in the vicinity at such short notice so we ended up going to a roped off area of the staff restaurant where they'd put paper tablecloths with rudimentary heart shapes cut out of them. They were playing a selection of panpipe tunes which included: My Heart Will Go On, The Greatest Love of All and Only You.. The menu was, unfortunately the same as the rest of the canteen, so we feasted on tinned oxtail soup followed by sausage, beans and chips with Angel Delight Trifle for dessert.

Afterwards we took a romantic stroll around St James's Park which was very pleasant. Wilf apologized that he couldn't take me out tonight but apparently he has to accompany a friend of his Mother's to a whilst drive. I made a mental note to leave a towel on a radiator when I stay with Wilf next time as I've heard it's very romantic.

Wilf and the seaside

Yesterday we went to Hastings for a trip in Wilf's car, it was rather nice to be honest. Firstly Wilf decided to stop off en route in the picturesque 'St Leonard's upon Sea' because he forms part of the 'Save the Pier Committee' which is a bit odd in itself; apparently he became involved due to a previous incident in which he became obsessed with 2p slot machines and found redemption in pier salvation. He stated that he'd like to buy a house on the coast one day.

We had a wonderful lunch in a retro fish and chip cafe; Wilf was terribly gentlemanly, holding my chair out, standing up whenever a lady entered the cafe and generally seemed a little bit embarrassing if I'm truly honest. Luckily he wasn't wearing a hat, as I'm sure he would have doffed that at every given opportunity. We later went for a stroll along the coast, him holding my hand - it was very nice and very like old times.

The subject of Mr A did come up, Wilf said that he was sorry that he'd disappeared in such a manner and he was a great loss to the Civil Service. He also said that he bore me no ill will and hoped that we could put the past behind us. I do hope so. Wilf drove me home about 7ish, I didn't want to ask him in as Mother was hosting a 'John Barrowman Appreciation Evening' and we didn't wish to impose.

My name is Margaret and I'm drunk!

Yes I bloody am, sorry for swearing but I've had a few. Wilf rang and asked me to dinner at the civil service club which is always fun. I was pleased to note that they've retained their coffin/sweet trolley, which is always reassuring during these difficult financial times. We had the three course Thursday special which included a choice of roast waterfowl - Wilf joked that they'd been hunting in nearby St James's Park with an enormous butterfly net to save on butcher's fees.

Wilf is rather dreamy after several glasses of wine. His hair doesn't appear quite so greasy when you've enough booze to oil the wheels of attraction and his pimples were hidden under a trainee goatee beard. I particularly loved the way he'd teamed a pair of suit trousers with casual Converse, surely a fashion juxtaposition nobody has really thought out.

He's asked me out again on Saturday for a car journey to the coast. I've accepted as I've nothing better to do now Mother spends most of the time with her fancy man and Father has donned his earthworm suit and wriggles around the garden in an alarming manner most of the time.

Mr A's memorial service

Yesterday was a very emotional day for me as I attended Mr A's memorial service. Held in his home village in Kent it was a moving tribute to the man many loved, some liked and quite a few actively detested. Mr A snr paid tribute to his son, calling him 'the ideal grammar school boy' and luckily the 'friend' who wrote such a damning eulogy a few weeks ago wasn't able to attend because he'd had both legs broken at a recent donkey derby. The highlight of the service was when the deceased/missing (delete as applicable)'s relatives played a haunting rendition of the popular hit 'Goodbye Mr A' via swanny whistle, kazoo and tamborine. This was something I, and many other guests would never forget.

Back at the house we consumed Mrs A's famous 'running buffet #3' which consisted of sausages on sticks, cheese and pineapple on a stick, roasted new potatoes on a stick, in fact, it was pretty 'stick' based finger food. Mr A snr managed to maintain an air of restrained dignity by hugging me at various points whilst trying to fondle my bottom, something which is rather hard to do when one is sporting a silk mix pleated skirt as I was - his hands kept slipping off. Sometimes I wonder where some of Mr A jnr's traits came from, wonder no more.

Wilf unexpectedly turned up towards the end to pay his respects. I'd no idea that they knew one another apart from the work connection but apparently there was some other convoluted reason for his attendance which I'm at a loss to understand, especially as they were sworn enemies. Wilf kindly offered me a lift home, which I accepted. His relationship with Miss Renault 2010 has ended after she left him for the South East's number 1 car finance salesman 2007-present day. I was relieved to learn that.

Margaret and the MoG

We've been MoG'd at work! For those who don't work in the public sector, I'll explain a little: MoG or 'machinery of government' is when a group of civil servants have to tranfer to an other government department or 'OGD' because a Minister in an OGD takes responsibility for it. Therefore it's a case of 'move' or 'resign' so it's a fait accompli really. Once we move building I've worked out that I'll save £10 in shoe wear and tear per annum but will probably put on 2lb in weight with the reduced need for walking.

Father's in a strange mood this fine Sunday. I noted from the history on the desktop computer that he's been visiting 'earthworm appreciation sites' which is very odd. Strange packages keep arriving for him which are taken into the shed and disposed of very quickly.

Mr A's memorial service will take place next Friday morning.

Margaret on Sunday

A normal Sunday chez Weaver you'd think, but you'd be wrong. Life is so much more complex than you'd ever imagine sometimes and perhaps I'm imagining it but the house does seem to be sinking somewhat - I'll have to draw a 'plimsoll' line around the back wall and find out for myself at some point.

Emma's still paranoid about Connor, we've one of his gigs next week to contend with. The man's self-obessed, boring and gets my back up but at least she has a love life, I fear I threw caution to the wind, knickers to the tsunami and common sense to the mistral when I embarked on my flingette with Mr A which in turn ruined my romance with the wonderful Wilf to die a huge death (a little like the former gentleman in question.)

There was a lovely turtleneck jumper in the colour supplement this morning and what's even better, it was available in seven eye-catching colours, therefore I think I'll dust off my credit card and purchase it. I have my knitted 'costume' to wear to Mr A's memorial service next month, Mother flatly refuses to call a ladies' matching two-piece a 'suit' because as we all know, that garment is exclusively reserved for chaps.

Mr A's eulogy

I received an email today from Marcus Durbridge, a former friend of Mr A's and a senior civil servant in the Department for Important Paintings (DIP). I met Marcus on a couple of occasions and thought him a little too stuck up and superior for my liking, however he and Mr A shared a love of the Coen Brother Films and speciality ciders, so each to their own.

He sent me a draft of the eulogy he's written for next month's memorial service, it goes something like this. I'm not really sure it's really suitable, but see what you think.....

"I met Giles Henry Arbuthnot back in 1992 when we were both appointed to the civil service faststream as HEO(D)s. Giles struck me with his wit and intelligence straight away and although he wasn't particularly popular with his certain colleagues because of his sarcasm and lassez faire attitude, I was able to see through this to the true potential beneath. Giles held a series of posts, both home and abroad and throughout was able to surround himself with able staff who managed to foster a great number of impressive achievements, which reflected well on him. He was therefore one of the youngest faststreamers to be promoted to Grade 7.

Giles's later years were rather cloaked in mystery. Ostensibly he maintained a good work/life balance and enjoyed cultural events as well as becoming a rather splendid poet of his own accord. His love life was varied and it was always his intention to marry a middle class girl whom his mother would approve of. This of course, was tempered by his appetite for the seedier side of life which shouldn't really be discussed in the present company.

I sincerely hope he finds the fulfillment he so yearned for in death and if this turns out to be one of his illusions, and conversely turns up in London again sporting a beard - Giles, you owe me a pint!"

I could be so good for you...

Emma visited last night and we had a girlie night in putting the world to rights. She was complaining about her boyfriend Connor who has recently formed a Dennis Waterman and Kenny tribute band and dyed his hair a strange hue of ginger as a result. Emma is (quite rightly) worried about the female adulation this will undoubtedly bring as he's been booked for a slot at the coveted 'Sauf London Wide Boy Music Festival' at this local dive called 'The Coach and Horses' where, I'm told they berate people for dancing. Emma's concerned that one of the regulars will take a shine to Connor and dress up as Rula Lenska to try and steal him away from her; she's donning an Amanda Redman style wig as I type.

Otherwise, I received a letter this morning which informed me that there's to be a memorial service for Mr A next month in his home village of Greater Parva Minor. Due to new EU regulations people are declared dead within 100 days of disappeaprance, which is a great deal less than the previous 7 years. Cuts!