I spent yesterday on the sofa, my swollen ankle rendered me house-bound. I spent my time productively, contemplating which way to vote in the next General Election. Being a miner's daughter I have always, of course, voted Labour. However, they are not the party I once knew. Where are the passionate and charismatic Tony Benns and Michael Foots? Labour have become flabby and complacent. They are a little too polished and too far removed from their socialist roots. They have lost my vote.
Of course, voting Tory is not an option. I like the compassionate side of the Lib Dems but I worry that once I start voting for them I will find myself wearing un-ironed linen tunics with chunky ethnic jewellery. I will have to spend my weekends building bird boxes from recycled Guardian newspaper and knitting shawls from my collected leg-hair clippings. Indeed, will I even be allowed shave my legs? Will I be allowed to wear lipstick? Will I have to trade my ballet-pumps in for Birkenstocks? So many questions. . .The Lib Dems somehow just seem a little too worthy. A little lacking in humour. A little too cunting politically correct.
I am bracing myself for the never-ending stream of door-step canvassers. Although, the most active in this area appear to be the vile and brainless bozos of the BNP.
'Pet, what would you say was the most pressing issue, crime, immigration, lack of jobs for British workers?' they ask.
I simply shut the door on them, whilst wondering whether any party will address my most pressing issue, namely, where am I going to find a witty, kind and intelligent Cary Grant look-a-like in the North East of England?
Being terribly bored yesterday, I emailed Rochester my election dilemma. I just knew that the swarthy fanny rat would have no problems in the election department. I chatted about scones with Madam Noir (Rochester is fascinated with her lezza-lifestyle), asked him about his ailing granny and shared the sad news of Kipper's demise. His response:
Vote labour you daft cunt. Jesus. Sorry to hear about Kipper. Twas time I would imagine. Granny is like a pond fly. Madam Noir still needs cock - she is not a proper lezza. All very unsettling. I hope you are ok. Things ok in my new world. Apart from the omnipresence of death x
The first thing that struck me about Rochester's response was his very clipped, short sentences. He appeared to be channeling Tarzan in some way.
Me Rochester. You Underscore. Me busy man. Pegs to sell. And lace handkerchiefs. Door to door. You're a cunt. Goodbye.
The second thing that made me snigger is his insistence that Madam Noir is in denial about her sexuality. It is ironic. Whilst she was hetro, Rochester was forever suggesting she was a really 'Venetian'. Once she came out, he began to suggest that she is some kind of faux-lezza (lezza-ette)? Madam Noir - I think he is suggesting some sort of penile intervention will help you see the light. A sort of laying on of hands . . . only with cocks. He is possibly even offering his services in that area. Your thoughts, Madam Noir?
Anyway, this reference to his 'new world' got me thinking. I never really explained what happened with Rochester, did I? Basically he appeared to have a mid-life crisis, in reverse. He was living the high-life - a charming, witty and gorgeous girlfriend (err. . . that would be me), no real job to speak of, lots of freedom, no real responsibilities and a sexy and seductive sports car called Noddy (OK, Noddy was not a sports car, it was a 12 year old Nissan Almera rust-bucket). Rochester seemed to spend his days propping up bars and writing maudlin and ironic poetry.
Rochester claimed to be divorced when I met him (in fact, he was not). Out of the blue one day, he announced he was going back to his wife. The last I'd heard was that his wife had set up a support group for all his exs, and they met regularly to plot violent revenge on the laconic, louche lothario. So, the news of his welcome return to the domestic fold was most unexpected.
Since then the swarthy cad appears to have embraced all things mundane and domestic - a job in sales, his Noddy car traded in for a Vauxhall Vectra (probably). I imagine he now sports a natty range of golfing sweaters and reads Frederick Forsyth novels from the comfort of his lezza-ette, sorry, leatherette La-z Boy recliner.
The whole thing is like watching The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin on rewind - Reggie comes out of the sea, gets dressed, picks up his brolly, goes back to the office, back to suburbia, back to the wife. How unorthodox. Typical Rochester. Always a radical. Only Rochester would have a mid-life crisis in reverse. Only Rochester would have a mid-life RECOVERY. If this continues I may have to adjust his Walter Matthau rating - he's a Jack Lemmon in the making!
Cash and Carried . . . Crashed and Burned.
Now, you may recall Easter was 'D' day: my 'afternoon tea' date with the jiu jitsuing financial advisor, Cash and Carry (C&C). Well, he has blown it, I am afraid. Last week I did not respond quickly enough to a couple of his emails. He sulked like a child. For fuck's sake. He may spend his days fannying around, investing bankers' bonuses, embezzling pensioners' life-savings and funding shady arms deals - but I have a proper job! I was bone-achingly tired last week. He has shown his true colours. So, he can stick his cucumber sandwiches and simnel cake right up his Mini Isa. I can't be doing with the hassle.