Sunday, 18 July 2010

Dear Diary #2

Sunday, 18 July 2010
Weather: Bit overcast and a little chilly. Am wearing my dressing gown which could do with a wash. A wood pigeon outside is making a twit-twoo noise, much like an owl. Maybe it is an owl. Yes, I think it might well be.
Mood: I’ve got wind. That about covers it.
Song of the day: Kylie, Your Disco Needs You (you’ll see why in a mojo). La disco, a besoin de vous!
News events of the day: Some budget airline has gone bust and there are loads of people stranded abroad. I know it’s terrible, but my advice would be to simply just get caught up in the drama and enjoy yourself. Stuck in paradise and can’t get home? What a shame. Suck it up and get over it, people. I’m partially jealous.

Dear Diary,

As I write to you, I am bleary eyed and fresh from slumberdom where I had a rather odd dream. Yes, I know that other peoples’ dreams are usually fist-munchingly dull (same goes for their holiday snaps, truth be told… Hmm, nice pointless picture of a yacht that you just walked past and never went on, lovely! Oooh, non-interesting blurred photo of generic sunburnt person drinking beer and looking a tad simple in an English themed pub, great!)… Where was I? Oh yes, I am writing this (probably boring account) down in case any of it comes true. This will then serve as proof that I am some sort of soothsayer and can be legitimately sponsored by Uri Geller. Or some fruity chewing gum. Probably.

So! Last night I was extremely busy being fast a-kip when my subconscious exported me to the library at work. I was minding my own business and smelling lovely when Kylie (yes, the Kylie, of hotpants Spinning Around infamy) came in and said that she wanted a word. I was like, ‘yeah, whatever, I’ll just put these books away and then I need a wazz and I’ll be right with you, chuck,’ which was a sure sign it was a dream because if it was real life, I’d probably just go to the loo in my pants on the spot. When I finally caught up with her, she gave me a big hug and told me that she had nominated me to become an OBE. Turns out that when she had been poorly a few years ago, I’d been a rock and as a result, she thought I was worthy of a royal honour. Next thing you know, I’m at the Palace and the Queen was pinning a badge on me. Strangely, she had a really broad Mancunian accent and all she said was, ‘Well done, lover. ‘Elp yersen to Piccalilli Cake. It’s friggin gorgeous.’ She looked terrible. She had one of those horrible pastel get- ups that she’s fond of wearing. But this one was too big for her and she had clearly dropped her Piccalilli Cake down her. I know she’s 487 years old or whatever, but come on Liz, pull yourself together, woman. I didn’t say that to her, as I was concerned that she’d have me for high treason and lob my bonce off. Armed with my OBE badge, I floated back to my friends, (ie. Kylie and entourage) who were waiting for me with a large slab of the Queen’s finest Piccalilli cake. Truly scrumptious, etc. As we giggled and guffawed, Kylie’s mood suddenly turned. ‘Okay you big fat bitch,’ she snarled. ‘Now it’s time for you to do something for me.’ I almost choked on my mustard pickle treat. ‘Give me your stylist,’ she screamed. ‘Mine’s rubbish – look at me.’ I stood back and drank her image in. She too was in an oversized pastel frock and she had a bit of pepper stuck in her teeth. Crestfallen and slightly gutted that Kylie was in fact a bit of a cow, I kneed her in the fanny and legged it. That’ll learn her, won’t it? And don’t worry about me hitting a woman – when I got home and looked in the mirror, it turned out that I was Victoria Beckham. Aka, Ethiopian Spice.

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