Let Lying Dogs Sleep
12.07.14 (Day 202)
06.42
I'm awake. Well there's something fucking new. The Dog got in late last night and is asleep in his kennel downstairs. He missed all the action last night and the latest episode in the Grievers' Estate soap opera. We don't have a TV so we have to make our own entertainment here. Or rather, the entertainment finds us. Last night it found me.
It's a long story which I'll edit down for broadcast purposes and one which I'll no doubt relay several times today to visiting family members. That and trying to keep a lid on things on social media will keep me busy. As I'm always saying, I have too much to say to too many people and what I have to say is too much for social media. Therefore, four words: "Read the fucking blog!" (And my other mantras: "We all have baggage and we leave it at the door"; "Don't judge lest ye be judged yourself"; "Let he who casts the first stone be without sin"; "No point crying over spilt milk"; "That was yesterday, so is today and so will tomorrow be"; "Did I just say that aloud?" "I can and I just did"; "I know I'm pretty"; "Does this boat (race) look like it cares?"; "That wasn't supposed to happen"; "Is it meant to do that?"; "Oops!"; "Fuck off you cunt"; and "If you want a bikini body, wear a fucking bikini!" And so on).
It was late and I was home alone. There were people outside in what we refer to as The Garden or The Courtyard. I had a word. So did they. In triplicate. Now I have a fucked up leg to go with my broken ribs and bruised neck. Another burden to carry.
The back story to all of this is that the episode was arranged by someone I apparently have a problem with: it wasn't. The rumour mill had been at work, churning out shit. I do have a problem with someone who's been getting at one of my kids and that's being sorted. The same kid has been on the same end of the rumour mill as me: the receiving one. The rumour mill is best left to run its course and not have the flames fuelled.
So a bit of business to sort out, roll end credits and let sleeping dogs lie. Lots of fucked up family due today, including my kid sister but the one person I'd most like to see is the one who fell victim to the rumour mill: that thing - that machine - destroys families but families have hearts that beat.
10.42
The Dog was just up, been fed and given treats (roll-ups) by its owner and has now gone back to bed. So I'll look after the place alone and let him sleep.
11.42
I've got the Saturday Guardian: a week's worth of reading, which is handy as that's how long I've been advised to rest this leg for. Because that's really going to happen when I've got a Dog. But rested up in bed with The Guardian is me in my element and brings back memories. Just the breakfast, a kitchen to cook it in, a flat for that kitchen to be in, a town for that flat to be in and the love of my once upon a time missing.
12.07.14 (Day 202)
06.42
I'm awake. Well there's something fucking new. The Dog got in late last night and is asleep in his kennel downstairs. He missed all the action last night and the latest episode in the Grievers' Estate soap opera. We don't have a TV so we have to make our own entertainment here. Or rather, the entertainment finds us. Last night it found me.
It's a long story which I'll edit down for broadcast purposes and one which I'll no doubt relay several times today to visiting family members. That and trying to keep a lid on things on social media will keep me busy. As I'm always saying, I have too much to say to too many people and what I have to say is too much for social media. Therefore, four words: "Read the fucking blog!" (And my other mantras: "We all have baggage and we leave it at the door"; "Don't judge lest ye be judged yourself"; "Let he who casts the first stone be without sin"; "No point crying over spilt milk"; "That was yesterday, so is today and so will tomorrow be"; "Did I just say that aloud?" "I can and I just did"; "I know I'm pretty"; "Does this boat (race) look like it cares?"; "That wasn't supposed to happen"; "Is it meant to do that?"; "Oops!"; "Fuck off you cunt"; and "If you want a bikini body, wear a fucking bikini!" And so on).
It was late and I was home alone. There were people outside in what we refer to as The Garden or The Courtyard. I had a word. So did they. In triplicate. Now I have a fucked up leg to go with my broken ribs and bruised neck. Another burden to carry.
The back story to all of this is that the episode was arranged by someone I apparently have a problem with: it wasn't. The rumour mill had been at work, churning out shit. I do have a problem with someone who's been getting at one of my kids and that's being sorted. The same kid has been on the same end of the rumour mill as me: the receiving one. The rumour mill is best left to run its course and not have the flames fuelled.
So a bit of business to sort out, roll end credits and let sleeping dogs lie. Lots of fucked up family due today, including my kid sister but the one person I'd most like to see is the one who fell victim to the rumour mill: that thing - that machine - destroys families but families have hearts that beat.
10.42
The Dog was just up, been fed and given treats (roll-ups) by its owner and has now gone back to bed. So I'll look after the place alone and let him sleep.
11.42
I've got the Saturday Guardian: a week's worth of reading, which is handy as that's how long I've been advised to rest this leg for. Because that's really going to happen when I've got a Dog. But rested up in bed with The Guardian is me in my element and brings back memories. Just the breakfast, a kitchen to cook it in, a flat for that kitchen to be in, a town for that flat to be in and the love of my once upon a time missing.
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