I am on the third glass because it is Tuesday and I am not at work. I am having a lovely time but might not be being very articulate. The best thing about wine is that it stops me even minding. I expect you are used to this by now.
In my youth I remember there being a chap like this who wrote a column for a newspaper, I forget his name, who was described as being unwell when he was too drunk to write anything.
I am not unwell yet, but I am working on it, it is wonderful to watch the world gradually becoming fuzzier. If Mark brings another glass of wine upstairs I will definitely be unwell very soon, but he is in the kitchen watching something on YouTube with Oliver, and laughing, so I am not holding my breath.
Onwards.
I was on my morning amble around the village when to my irritation I came across our incumbent twerp of an MP outside the post office, signing autographs and baring his teeth at people.
He was being harangued by the postmaster, which I took to be a good sign, the postmaster does not suffer fools, probably he was telling him to sling his hook and stop loitering.
The MP recognised me from our previous spats, and we glared at one another, until he remembered that he was on public display and raised a smile which did not even get as far as his cheekbones.
I was so irritated to see him that I forgot the milk and had to go back afterwards. I went to Sainsbury’s so that I would not need to pass the post office again.
Mark went into the garden afterwards and was warned by a neighbour to avoid the post office.
After that we went to the farm, where Mark gave the dogs a haircut.
This was because they smelled revolting.
It was not an especially stylish haircut because they wouldn’t stop fidgeting. You can see this in the picture at the top, which is Roger Poopy, who is the one not wearing the dressing gown.
After the haircut they spent the rest of the day shivering, even in the sunshine. We were not greatly sympathetic because of them smelling so much better.
Goodness, this is difficult after three glasses of wine, even though we had cheese and crackers with them.
Jeffrey Bernard.
My friend Kate came to see us whilst we were busily doing things to the camper van, so of course we stopped and had a cup of coffee, which was lovely. We have not seen Kate for ages, so it was ace to catch up, news of other people’s adventures is like giving sweets to your brain, completely no good for it whatsoever but brilliant to absorb.
Kate has a daughter the same age as Lucy, who is working hard to be as irritating as she can. I am impressed by her determination, she has outdone Lucy completely, if Lucy decided to become a vegan environmentalist campaigner she would very soon have starved to death, and I take my hat off to Kate’s magnificent patience.
It is no good. Alcohol does not help lucidity.
Mark did something to the dashboard and I painted some steps on my door.
I don’t know what Mark did. I think he was putting the dials back, speedometer and petrol gauge and so on. There is not much point to this because they don’t work and never have, but they look very pretty in the newly brown suede dashboard.
Enough is enough. Mark has not appeared with the longed-for refill and I am going to have to go downstairs and hunt out my own.
Sarah Ibbetson is about to be unwell.
