The little dog has just completed 12 clockwise rotations before finally settling down on the bed. The bed, not his. For once, he is not lying on my knees or feet, but with some certainty, I predict I shall be stirred by an ache from my knee or hip due to his migration onto my lower limbs during the night.

Tonight, I am determined to combat the evil sprites that dwell in my nasal passages with fresh air: the bedroom window is open. The sounds from outside consist of the constant humming from the dual carriageway, the passing of the odd car on the road nearby and the strange mating rituals of the residents of Prestolee. I wish them a salutary high six!

Prestolee, over the river is one of those odd places that was cut off from the rest of civilisation for centuries before the bridge linking it to Stoneclough was built. For years, the strange, yet simple folk had take a long and arduous journey by dirt track or canal, or use their ape-like attributes to swing across the river on vines and ropes. Their homogenous gene pool has been diluted over the course of time, yet still they retain their charm, which is characterised mainly by their ability to consume twice as much alcohol as any other human being and also to shout their strange mating calls from over the river from about 11pm every Friday and Saturday night.

They try to mate with geese, so I’ve heard.

The area is, however, home to an outstanding school, rated in the top 100 in England. I think they kill the school inspectors and forge the reports in all honesty. I’d like to bet it’s the type of place where the children are taught “the old ways”, much akin to the school on Summer Isle.

The natives have gone quiet, for now. The air is delightfully fresh without being bracing, I shall sleep soundly tonight.

Party fears two
I have three consecutive weekends of parties. I was never invited to this many when I was a child – the parents of my classmates thought me strange and were wary of supernatural events ruining pass the parcel.

Tomorrow’s is a fortieth. Next week’s is a fortieth. And the following week’s is… a fortieth. All will be very different and I am looking forward to them all for a variety of reasons. Or so I keep telling myself.

It’s that usual problem that I have with socialising. I dread the thought of it, but actually enjoy it. The third party will be great because I get to go in fancy dress (costume yet to be decided), but that affords a degree of disguise and mysssssstery. Tomorrow’s party will simply be great. I’ll end up talking to the same people I always speak to, but I like those people and, no matter how hard I try, I run out of conversation with people I don’t know too well. Maybe I put the brakes on before I make a complete tit of myself, but one thing I should remember is that they’ll be drinking and I won’t. Perhaps that’s the problem; I should just have a couple of drinks and relax. Alas, I can’t tomorrow, so I’ll be saving myself for getting shitfaced at party number 2.

I must take these opportunities to meet new friends, acquire at least 2 new people into my contacts, add them to Facebook. This is my challenge in the year of being a little braver.

Boxed in
I shouted at a woman for blocking a box junction this afternoon, although I did refrain from calling her a dim fuck. She got away lightly. Well, I say she got away lightly, but she did bear a striking resemblance to just about everybody over the river, so needless to say, she’s carrying a fairly heavy weight around in her chromosome makeup as it is.

Blesssssss.