Bad news day. Cornish John dead!. . . Molly phoned to tell me. God do I hate getting old, it seems like every week brings another death. Mind you John never looked after himself, just another loser and not a beautiful one either. Very scary, who’s next?
Molly says the funeral is next week. Strangely enough, although I’m loathe to admit it, looking forward to catching up with the gang. Have to get down to Prix Marche to get something to wear and I’ll pop into Oxfam on the off chance, might find some glad rags for Mutton. He ruins all his strides, it’s that ointment, he gets it everywhere but on his arse.
Another dreary depressing day. Freezing fog swirling out of Kensal cemetery like wraiths fingers trying to snatch you. Just what you need on the way to the doctors. Looks like rain again. . . or snow. . . colder than an Inuits todger. Muttons brass monkekies have all but disappeared, not that he ever gets to use them these days. . . poor luv. I am fond of him, but he drives me bonkers with his deafness, full volume Who and Zepplin.
Got so down this afternoon watching zombie afternoon telly with ads for Tenna lady, Parky flogging dodgy insurance for a free gift and a pen and add ons and aids for wrinklies with angst and arthritis. Perhaps being brown bread is better than waiting for your toast to burn. Still Coronation street and Emmerdale have got it all going on and I’ve got a bottle of Blue Nun, some choccies from the £1 shop and a bottle of night nurse.