Rochester was ill when I met him. I don't think I appreciated just how ill he was. The cove has infected me. I have spent the last few days in bed. I think it is some kind of flu. Fanny Rat flu probably. My symptoms:
- aching limbs
I actually don't think I can recall a time I have felt so deathly. It is no fun being ill when you live on your own. I am in need of someone to make me cups of tea and search the Radio Times for cosy murder mysteries (Midsummer Murders, Marple, Poirot and the like). The hounds have not had a walk in days. They just stay curled forlornly on the bed with me.
So, thank you Rochester. In the words of the late, great Britney Spears (I know she's not dead, but to all intents and purposes her career is)
'Don't you know that you're toxic?'
My Aunty Margaret always expressed a similar view about you, although I believe her exact words were 'adulterous scoundrel with a hussy in every town.'
My New Year's Eve text from Rochester last night said the following,
'In fairness, most of our decades are over now, thank fuck. Do you think my texts will ever make it into A Level York Notes?'
Ah, how poignant is the lowering of expectations that accompanies the passing of time. Once upon a time Rochester was a writer of poems, emails and a blog. Now he is a composer of texts and a double glazing sales handbook (The Rochester Rubric). I think we both know the underlying issue here: Rochester is intimidated and emasculated by my superior literary talent.
'I do think your texts will certainly be highly scrutinised in the future, Rochester. Not by students of literature though. More likely by the Serious Crime Squad.'
I did think of adding that given his fanny-ratting proclivities, I was also quite certain that future Rochester WAGs will undoubtedly be obsessive and furtive readers of the cad's texts.
'Of course, my blog, in the future will be studied by postgraduate students of women's literature. You will then surely become a much despised Ted Hughes sort. You'll have a feminist fatwa on your head.'
He has yet to respond.
Well. This mini-blogging has exhausted me. Time for another Nurofen sponsored nap. On the subject of feminists I shall leave with you with one of Rochester's jokes.
Q. How many feminists does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. (to be delivered in huffy and insulted tone) One, and actually that's not even funny.