I love my bed: swaddled in feather and down, the crisp cotton bedding crunching as I move, resting on a mattress that hugs me, warmed by the electric underblanket. This is luxury. The silence is broken by the tapping of the keys as I type and the snuffling of the little dog besides me as he licks and sniffs his anus.

Rocky does have his own bed that lies on the floor next to mine. He prefers to drag it around the house though since, to him, it seems like a large stuffed toy. I point out to him that his teddies squeak. He pays little attention to me.

He pays little attention to me, but he makes such a fuss when I leave him, howling and whining until I return, at which point he launches himself at me repeatedly. I know that he howls and whines for me because people I leave him with tell me. I also know this because of the number of doormats he’s destroyed over the years.

And now he snores, stretched out on my clean bed linen. I stop short of turning the electric blanket on on his side of the bed.

Fifty ways to tell your mother
Jodie Foster gave an impressive and emotional speech at the Golden Globes this week in which she came out as being fifty (FIFTY????) and single.

I liked her style and argument, which is one that I have used and still do. Why on earth does society think that people who are gay need to come out and proclaim their sexuality? It defies logic, but it demonstrates the negative attitudes towards homosexuality that are still very much inherent in this so-called enlightened world of ours. Could you imagine if the straights had to do that?

“Mum, Dad, I’ve got something to tell you, I think you’d better sit down.

“I’ve been trying to think of a good time to tell you this, but there may never be a good time, so I’m just going to have to this now, so don’t interrupt, just listen.

“I’m straight; I fancy boys. I know this is going to be a terrible worry for you, but please don’t hate me, or yourselves, it’s not your fault, it’s just the way I am. I’ve read a few books and been on the internet, spoken to my friends and they’ve been great with me – some of them are straight too as it turns out. I know there are terrible risks and I promise to try to be careful to choose the right boy, not to get pregnant or an STI, not to end up in a loveless relationship, or even worse, an abusive one. I know a lot of straight people who just want to sleep around, but I’m not like that, I want to find love and eventually I might. So please, don’t reject me because of this, it’s going to be really difficult, but I need you more than ever right now.”

Straight people just do their thing, talk about who they fancy freely, meet a boy or girl, tell their family and friends that they’ve met somebody and it’s generally no big deal. Yet it’s expected that people come out as gay even before they meet somebody worth going out with.

One of these days, I hope in the next couple of decades, we’ll get to the stage whereby everyone will be able to feel comfortable expressing who they fancy without it being such a massive deal. Schools have a big part to play in this, but there seems to be little done to tackle homophobic bullying in schools and with more and more religious schools, I fear that the problem will become worse, not better. Let’s face it, if you’re gay and an atheist, things could start to get fairly hideous a few years down the line.

But nobody really bothers about this shit so long as they’re OK.

Le Weekend!
It’s only Thursday evening but that’s as good as le weekend in my book. I’ve already started going a little bit mad by clipping off some hard skin from my foot. This girl knows how to live.

Venerdi sera will bring even more excitement with the arrival of Skippy at my sister’s house. Skippy – his current name is Bobby – is a two year old tom cat who is residing in a cage at a vets where he’s been since he was found in a skip two months ago. While I’d love to go and visit him tomorrow (sans chien, bien sur), I’ll leave him a few days to settle in before assessing where he sits on the cuddle scale. I do love cats.

Sabbato, io va a la distritto lago. That’s nothing like Italian, but then again, nor am I. I’m off to Keswick on Saturday and I think I am in the mood to have plenty of shits and giggles. I’m now curbing my alcohol intake significantly, it’s for the best, but I’m not doing the Dry January thing so I’m planning on getting fairly drunk. This past year has taught me a few lessons, which I knew anyway:

Domenica could be very tricky for me if I take the last point too far, so I do need to be careful to limit my intake to just two bottles of wine. And Pedro Ximenez can jog on.

I don’t know what the Italian is for weekend, but I do know the French.