Cleaned myself: not on car journeys
Monkey see, monkey do: mmmh, depends on your definition
Tics: please God forgive me.
Believe in God? Must replace God in the tic. Perhaps with Me
YTLH: 0
The Aged-P’s have decided not to relax Lockdown, which has its benefits. It means that I kiss Big Tooth goodbye as we cross in front of the car to swap seats, a lawn and a hedge away from prying eyes, instead of prolonging the agony with eggs and cake, chez noose. I still feel like an uncle having an affair with his nephew, but at least a respite will come when I re-enter the Green Zone, downtown Bad-dad (cul-de-sac).
At that tea-time table, trouble is brewing. I try to make light, but I notice a raised eyebrow and a sigh with an air of what’s he gone and done now about it. What he’s gone and done, by the way, on top of the other thing that’s troubling them, but which yet, they are too furious to articulate. Eventually, conceding the battle to have a quarter of a hard boiled-egg balance on a piece of ham, mother’s husband puts down his cutlery and barely able to speak, the little white flecks of dry spittle gathering at the edges of his lips, he hisses from behind clenched lips, ‘That girl …’
I immediately think he means Big Tooth and start to form a response which references his complacent disinterest, and how his suddenly animated reaction has no standing now that the thing he fears has finally happened. But before I’ve organised my words, he wrong foots me when next he says, ‘don’t you have a scintilla of remorse for the part you played?’
It turns out that I should have entered a prolonged mourning for my role in being proximate to the girl that Orville squashed to death. Flowers have been sent, the cost of which I am to reimburse, and I will be driving our happy family to the funeral, in addition to speaking to the bereaved personally at the open buffet at the rugby club afterwards. I think about offering to recite Little Gidding from the DJ’s rostrum, but withdraw it on the basis that the prick is too ignorant to rise above his indignation, not to mention distaste for his spawn. Though I could mime to Seasons in the Sun. They’d get that.
To be fair, he’s such a weak-minded soul that it is probably not him but Roger that is responsible for this bout of contrived shame, and it makes me wonder again whether I will have a job to return to on Monday, despite all the assurances that my new girlfriend has given me. I know that I am not crucial to the operation but who else is there to make scapegoat when the marketing boost, which is needed now more than ever, is decried for its vulgarity and bad taste? You know, the role that Bobby undertook on behalf of Boney M?
I am at least lubricant to low-lifes. Aren’t I?
thanks to Melani Sosa for the egg
Dickie White's Diary 
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