Saturday, 11 September 2010

Please don't rain on my parade.

Rochester. Peg King '69. Geordie gigalo.

I have resisted blogging about this, but I feel I simply must get it off my chest.

Rochester, as you know, has requested a few get-togethers recently. I have resisted. I was unsure of the rogue's intentions. Actually, that is not true, I was well aware of the rogue's intentions, but was just too entangled in other dramas to even contemplate seeing him. I adore Rochester. Of course I do. No one could read this blog and be unaware of that fact. I am utterly besotted by him. I long to see him. I think about that all the fucking time. I have always suspected such a meeting would only lead to pain, chaos and carnage, BUT, I was tentatively beginning to come round to the idea. Last week he wrote of how much he enjoyed our 'exchanges' (i.e. my BMW abuse, and his Pinter-esque 3 word responses). He also wrote of how he wanted to see me.

Before I could even contemplate meeting him there was one thing I needed to know. One question I had been avoiding, The Wife. Rochester and I split up when he decided to go back to his wife. That was something of a shock. I hadn't realised he still had a wife. Anyway, I was certain that Rochester wouldn't even be suggesting meeting if he was still involved. Obviously, he was now single, a desolate husk of a man, ravaged by lovelorn longing for me. Surely his only company would be the Samaritans on speed dial and The Boatman's Call on repeat play. Reader(s) I was spectacularly mistaken.

'Yes. I am still married. We're still together. I would like to see you.'

So, of course, I said 'no' to the meeting. And he has not uttered a Pinter-esque word ever since. It doesn't matter how many BMW or 'peg salesman of the year' insults I throw his way, he is as silent as the grave. I shouldn't even write to him. That must stop.

Anyway. My week.


Leapt out of bed at 5.45 to a beautiful mellow, late summer morning. Met my new class. HURRAH!!!! 2p + 2p = 4p holds no fear for them. They are as bright as the buttons on Adam Ant's Prince Charming jacket. Looking at the children's books at the end of the day I could have wept with joy. Last year's class books looked like a drunken, dyspraxic spider had crawled into a pot of ink and snot and staggered across the page. Their books didn't have dog-eared corners, they had elephant-eared corners.

Monday = hopeful.


Woke to torrential rain, black skies, gale-force winds, bitter cold, broken poached eggs on burnt toast for breakfast, the discovery that the heels on my new shoes had been chewed off by dogs, major flea infestation (dogs, not me) and worst of all BUTTONS ON LAST TERMS BLACK WORK TROUSERS STUBBORNLY REFUSING TO DO UP!!!! Life truly deals blow after blow.

Tuesday = utter despair


Ethnic cleansing of fleas complete (how satisfying). Wrote to Rochester, suggesting he starts a new blog called ‘Boorish Macho Wanker’ - life ‘behind the windscreen’ of a BMW. I sold it to the rogue as being an expose, like ‘Behind the Veil’, but with pin stripe suits and Cuban heels rather than Burkas. I didn't go so far as to suggest that Rochester was a 'boorish, macho wanker', (although, in the words of the late, great Meatloaf two out of three aint bad). Anyway, Rochester did not reply, so. . .

Wednesday = bereft


Still no reply. Still bereft.


A good day. Took my class to watch a parade of returning soldiers through our city. It was lovely, and moving. Sadly, Pompous Pilate decided he wanted to come along. You all know my feelings about the beetrooty buffoon that is our Headteacher. Having him on our school trip was a bit like having your dad tag along to a school disco. He, quite literally, rained on our parade.

Friday = despite my first flag waving since the silver jubilee of 1977, bereft.


Awoke aching and fluey. The first infection of the term. Beginning to wonder if Rochester has had a BMW-esque car accident. Maybe he was ogling some teenage totty whilst negotiating a roundabout and lost control of his kraut fanny wagon. Maybe at this very moment, he is lying, semi-comatose, in a west country intensive care unit, weakly mumbling the words 'Miss Underscore' to a perplexed nurse. Or, maybe he is just being a cunt. I favour the latter.

Saturday: sinking in a miasma of agonising despair, self loathing and sneezing.

By the way - may I recommend this website? The Missing Missy entry always makes me smile.

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