Day 112: I Have A Seasonal Idea

Today I shall take a large pumpkin in my hands, walk to the end of my road, get on the 59 bus, get off outside the Old Vic in Waterloo, go inside, seek out Kevin Spacey and place my large pumpkin over his head with some force.

If my plan works, we will not be able to hear his voice or see his face any more. He will therefore no longer able to conduct unspeakably self-regarding interviews on the Television and the Radio, pose for his disgustingly smug publicity photographs that are then plastered all over London and that I have to look at with my eyes, or talk about his "craft" at press conferences. I not care if "at heart", he has "always been a stage actor." I do not care if he thinks London is his spiritual home. I do not care if it is a privilege for him to work at the Old Vic. I want him to go away, taking his stupid creepy now-slightly-British accent away with him.

Do not put comments on this post telling me he is a good actor. I am aware that he is good at pretending to be someone else. But the man is a knob*, and nothing you can say can convince me otherwise.


* He is not interesting enough to be called a 'cunt', and isn't stupid so can't be called a 'twat'. Knob seems about right.

Day 111: I Am A Pumpkin, Not An Artist

What with it being Halloween and all, I send matching skeleton costumes, fake scars, plastic squeaky rats and False Teeth to my two favourite Small Boys (who live in Glasgow).

Their mother writes. "Boy wants to know what YOU'RE going as". In my head, I am going as a pumpkin and will look like this:






















I have sent them the Picture, and hope they will be able to Visualise me in my New Outfit. However, the quality of drawing is not good, and I am Concerned, particularly as their mother is an Extremely Talented Artist and once, not so long ago, drew a juggling elephant without even drawing breath. I can only aspire to such things. Still, I like my green curly shoes and stalk hat VERY much.

Day 111: I Am Left With A Vista

Noel has left, whilst telling me that Bob Marley sounded like an Old Etonian. This is highly improbable, but entertaining nonetheless. Still, he has Cleared The Garden and I think there may be some Hope.

Check this mother out. New View From My Bed (taken whilst kneeling on the bed - this is London, remember; we have no space). I have cropped the drying rack, Cecilia Aherne novels and cakes out of the photograph.












Photograph of garden taken from inside the shed. (Not a pleasant experience, but still.) I think the red thing is a Christmas tree stand, but I am not sure where it came from.














There is a plant behind the door in a laundry bag. Again, I am not entirely sure where it came from. What the pots are doing in the middle of the lawn I cannot say, but they can be moved and filled, perhaps, with a Playmobil hospital, a Lego garage, or a crop of broken Barbies.

It doesn't usually look that gloomy, come to think of it, but the weather is grey and flat today, and it makes everything else grey and flat even if it is usually Cheerful. Including me. I shall go and run for a bit and try not to fall over.

Splendid Monkey Gallery: Picture 4

Hot News! Lucy Pepper writes with her kind permission to reproduce this SPLENDID drawing of monkeys in trees (and one dead and bleeding one). It makes me weak with joy.






















The tension is mounting. I can hardly bear it.

There's Dave Shelton (who I entered without his permission), Lee with her drawing of someone she once dated, and an Anonymous Contributor of Monkey. I know for a fact that Clare Sudbery has one up her sleeve, but she refuses to send it until she has finished her novel. (Selfish, I thought, but still - at least I've got something to look forward to.)

There are at least another three weeks to go until I decide who has Won the coveted Splendid Monkey Of The Month award. So come along; send me your monkeys. Terms and conditions of entry up there on the right. And remember: monkeys drawn by monkeys are particularly welcome.

Day 111: I Can See My Lawn

Noel is here again. This morning, talk has been of Richard Branson, air miles, mobile phones and a penny on your pension. The Peugeot estate has been emptied, allowing him to put more than one leaf in the back of the car. The trips to the dump (just behind Norwood Cemetery) may be more cost-efficient than I thought.

He has taken his jacket off, and Means Business. I hear the occasional thump and muttered curse ("for fuck's sake"); he is worried about dropping vegetation on my bedroom floor. I have reassured him, opened all the doors, tied the cat to the table and hidden in the sitting room, from where I am counting traffic wardens (seven so far, and they've only been at it for fifty minutes) and praying for a few more squirrel corpses before the day is out.