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Droning on...and on...and
on...and on...and on... |
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Lies, Lies, and more damned
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HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY |
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Friday, January 02, 2004
TRACER DELIVERS NEW ORGAN LIFE - KITCHEN KONSTRUCTION - KIDS KOCK THINGS UP
God, how easy it is to be neglectful of my duty to this page when I am living a life of ease. I spent the entire Christmas/New Year period wallowing in a fantasy of poverty while building a kitchen for an indigent relative, and I simply had no time for anything else. It made me feel so good, the sheer benevolence of it, and it certainly did no harm to the size of my organ. A whole week in which Dolores stood with her mouth open and expressed disbelief that I would want to spend my time sticking formica down to countertops and laying vinyl tiles. "Can't they even afford Corian?" she whined. I countered with a brisk "I think I might set up a business doing this," at which she rolled her eyes and reached for another of the endless spare ribs with which she stuffed herself over the course of the extended holiday. The indigent relative in question, one of my ex-wife's aunts by the name of Sadie, was less appreciative than she might be ("I told you I wanted granite, you big lunk") but that itself made the whole thing even more worthwhile, I felt.
My penis is showing signs of returning to something resembling a vague shadow of its former glorious volume, and to encourage it I have sold the Buick and bought a used Mercury Tracer, which is much less inclined to surge forward when the accelerator is depressed. I thought about a Mini, but concluded that although small it was clearly much too cool, and that the almost spectacular blahness of the Tracer would guarantee success. It seems to be working. In the end we kept the Maybach for use by Dolores and the kids, as I simply couldn't face the thought of Dolores griping endlessly about the humiliation of picking the little dears up from school in something cheaper. Slobodan was cheered up by the news, too, and hasn't grabbed me by the throat for over three weeks.
Little Rory and Alison will be back to school on Monday, which is probably a blessing, although I haven't seem much of them from behind the respirator I wore to apply the formica. Rory was sent home a week early from Chance for aggressively expressing the opinion to another child's father, an arms dealer, that he was singlehandedly responsible for all the ills of the world and a scumbag to boot. We had some difficulty coming up with a suitable form of words for a letter of apology, bearing in mind that he had simply been pointing out what was undoubtedly the truth. Alison, meanwhile, who is nine, conducted a ceremony in the back yard of the townhouse in front of her assembled girlfriends in which she serially decapitated each of her 32 Barbies and then consigned them to a blazing pyre created by dousing a blanket of unknown man-made fibers with kerosene. The resulting pungent black smoke penetrated each of the 141 apartments in the "luxury" building further down the block, and the alarm was delivered to the fire service by more than 40 different busybodies. Dolores, over-excited already as a result of the msg in the ribs, had to be heavily sedated.
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and on...and on...and on...and on
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