Saturday, August 26, 2006


I smell you

Stop watching me. I’m warning you.

All of you. You know who you are, oh yes, you do. You think you’re so clever, writing with such disparate voices, but I’m on to you.

Under the name of “Binty” you post an essay on your weblog referring to George Orwell, on the very same day that I make some Orwell-themed remarks. Today, I post comments on your various blogs – “Kim Ayres”, “Doctor Maroon” and others – and you respond within minutes.

But don’t you gloat too soon, Mr/Mrs/Ms Smarty-Pants. I’m on to you.

I started with the light bulbs. Took them all out and put putty in the sockets. Took all the curtains down after that and stuck corrugated iron up which I found in the rubbish tip on the other side of the field. Then I got rid of all the screens in the house apart from my PC monitor. Threw the TVs into the skip in the back alley.

The colour orange has something to do with all of this that you’re planning, as does that Dave Brubeck tune that goes on forever. I’ll figure it out, don’t you worry.

And then I’m coming to get you.

I can smell your chips, Clarice. You forgot the tinfoil hat.
I wasn't on duty today, so I didn't actually watch you.
My sources indicated you weren't going to visit until tomorrow anyway, so I needn't spend any extra time at it.
I'll monitor your activities when it suits the purposes of the state.
You've been wearing that shirt for 2 days now, Footie. When are you going to change it?

Oh yeah, and you're out of cornflakes.
Yeah I know it was a nearly full box of cornflakes, but it said they were fortified with B12 and well, you know...
I think somebody's been married too long.
Fillings have to go too. I can get Radio Tokyo on mine.

What do we smell like?
Foot:Oh, and when you come to get me, bring a gallon of milk and some eggs.
I know they put that chip under my skin somewhere. Fuckit, I'm gonna do some crank, slice my face off and feed it to my dog.
Excellent plan. Dogs are very handy for getting rid of evidence, especially if you don't have pigs.
Or, if you live in a high-rise block and don't have either, you could feed the thing to the budgie, I suppose. Then again, why not eat it yourself? Ann Widdecombe did, and look what happened to her.
I was just lurking, but if it bothers you so...

Love your blog, Mr. Footeater (that sounds so formal). Congratulations on your marriage. I have been married happily for 15 years, and one unhappy year (not talking about that One). We have our two children, two dogs, two cats, and a hamster. Reliable cars, a house in the country. Jobs. Following the guidelines set up for us by the previous generations. It sounds so boring. Oh wait, it is. I kind of like that now. May you have many happy years together too.
Fat Sparrow: you reveal an unhealthy Thomas Harris preoccupation in both your comments.

SafeT: your sources need fine-tuning.

Sam, Kim: very clever double-bluff there, as you know I don't eat corn flakes. You're going to have to try harder than that to catch me out, though.

Philip: I've long suspected you're the ringleader in all this.

Dr Maroon: you smell like hammers.

'Brewski': I know you're not the real Brewski as they got him a long time ago.

Jupiter's Girl: that sounds like a very caring and sincere comment, which has got me doubting my own sanity now. I'd thank you but perhaps that's what you all want.
Unhealthy preoccupation? Certainly not ME.

I just like to keep on the lookout for a few good tips of how to safely dispose of um, "evidence." You never know when they may come in handy. Doesn't everyone with an ex-husband do that?
Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Site Meter
Hit me