It has occurred to me that, living on my own with just the little dog for company, my vocabulary is limited somewhat by my interactions with him and the objects within the house and can be summarised as follows:

I thank you.

And so it came to pass that, after a day of snow-related fun activities in a big fridge, my niece was having some chicken pasta broth as we awaited her mother’s arrival.

Out of the blue, she asked, “You know Mary’s son?”

“Which Mary, Auntie Mary has two daughters.”

“No. You know Mary who’s married to Joseph, her son.”

Oh no! Please don’t take me there, Con!

“Right, what about him?”

“Well, how can he be God and Jesus?”

Fuck! I’m an atheist! How can I answer this one? I could go all hard-assed Dawkins on her six year old, beautiful, innocent ass. I despise Dawkins and his radical atheism though. There is nothing wrong with hope and belief so long as people live with their feet firmly on this earth. And kids? Kids thrive on hope and fairy tales and wonder and amazement. I will never take that beauty from them. It’s like stealing Christmas or cooking the Easter Bunny in a casserole. Shooting Bambi in the head and letting all the wicked witches win.

So how can God be Jesus?

Why the hell didn’t she ask this of this of her mother? Why Me?

I thought for a while, trying to find some inspiration from orzo pasta and cappelletti.

“Well…” I said, “God wanted to come to earth and show himself as a person, so he came as Jesus. And although God is Jesus’s dad, Jesus is God (oh please help me….). Is that pasta nice?”

“Yeah, it’s lovely! I still don’t get it though.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“OK”

Phew.

The day will come when she might ask if it’s ok not to believe in God. If that day doesn’t come, when she’s old enough, I’ll tell her my philosophy of humanism without any particular desire of her accepting my view of her own. In the meantime, I’ll nudge my philosophy into her life as much as possible.

That philosophy? Respect the planet, the animals, plants and people. Have time for people, treat them as you’d like to be treated yourself. Listen… to others, to the sounds around you. Look… there’s so much beauty before our eyes. Believe… in yourself, we’re all amazing and unique. Love… because this is a very miserable life without it. Laugh at yourself and with others, share your smile and it will spread more than you will ever imagine. Give time… even if it feels like such a terrible chore, those ten minutes might count for days with somebody. Share… with those who need. Be happy. Be fair. Be just.

In my view, you don’t need a god to tell you how to live your life; what’s right is just right.

I’ll tell you what though, those Christians have some bloody good songs.

My war with contact lenses will never be over. Today I engaged in the battle of “contact lens check” at my opticians in Manchester. I was supposed to go in September last year but couldn’t be bothered since I rarely wear them, mainly because I can’t see particularly well with them.

Waking up late, feeling pretty dreadful as ever, I drove into the big city where the new one way system confounded me to the extent that I ended up in a car park that I couldn’t find the exit from. I then got lost in Victoria Station. Things started badly and were only going to get worse.

After a semi-conscious shuffle around Marks’s, I made my way through the hell of the Arndale Centre to the opticians.

The test itself went much as expected.

“How are you finding the lenses?” the optician asked.

“Well, I can’t really see very well through them, so I don’t often wear them.”

“OK, I’ll turn the lights off and, if you cover your left eye, can you tell me the furthest line down that you can read with your right eye?”

“It’s all blurred.”

“Ok, have a look at the red and green panels. Is either of them more in focus than the other?”

“Nope, they’re both blurred.”

“Is it better with or without this lens?”

“No different.”

“Right, let’s have a look with your left eye then. Cover your right eye, what’s the furthest line down that you can read now?”

“Well, that’s better, I can read the second line… just.”

“Red or green panel?”

“Red.”

“Better with or without this lens?”

“No different.”

“OK then, now try with both eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s OK, I can read the top two lines.”

“Right then, your left eye is compensating for your right and you can see OK with them both together, there’s no point in changing them.”

Clearly not, since you’ve got six months’ worth of lenses in the stock room for me and they’re probably going out of date.

I took my lenses out for the orange snot test, replaced them with a fresh pair, and wandered back to Marks’s. Utterly deranged, I bought some underwear that’s probably my niece’s size and made my way back to the car.

Driving is quite uncomfortable when you have a contact lens stuck to the inside of your eyelid.

I’m getting a little fed up of feeling drained. It’s not sleepy tiredness, it’s like there’s a disconnect between my brain and everything that makes my body function. So now on Saturday night, I think I’m going reboot myself by making myself feel so very bad that I’ll never complain about feeling a little bit exhausted. The recipe for this is:

When I regain consciousness, possibly on Monday, I shall note down how I feel and use that as a baseline for future reference.

For no reason other than being able to look like a pretentious twat, I wish that I had continued my education in French from the age of sixteen. I was actually quite good at it, but never got to speak it. Instead, I became seduced by the sciences and thus my path was set at a tender age.

I never had the opportunity to learn Danish, but it never impeded my enjoyment of murderous Scandinavian dramas such as The Killing, Those Who Kill and The Bridge. Yet my heart was filled with some sense of remorse as I had to read subtitles to watch The Returned. It distracted from the cinematography somewhat; something that should have been enjoyed in its own right. The characters were beguiling, the actors who played them were stunningly beautiful. The whole thing left me so confused, but in the most wonderful way imaginable.

Here in the sleepy village of Stoneclough, I fear we may be heading towards our own supernatural disaster come Christmas. The bridge that links us to Ringley and beyond is closed and will remain so for six months. I have no idea what is going on the other side of the river; the residents are cut off from the rest of us for the duration of the road repairs.

They might all be dead: Sainsbury’s can’t deliver there and their only source of food is Asda in Radcliffe, or Morrisons in Whitefield or Tesco in Prestwich. I have no idea if those poor souls have the wherewithall to make it that far.

The next six months might see a period of dangerous in-breeding, I’m sure the authorities are aware of this and will be checking out all pregnancies over the coming months. I doubt ultrasounds are sensitive enough to show if a developing fetus has more than its fair share of digits, let alone more important factors such as a murderous nature and immortality.

They shall return and they will be amongst us once again. Appearing as old friends and neighbours, yet vengeful against those of us who weren’t cut off from the 21st century advantages that Bolton Council affords us.

Most worrying of all is that they will join forces with the special breed of people from Prestolee. They spent centuries evolving in their own microcosm until the bridge over the Irwell allowed them to enter the modern era. During that time though, a special subset of humanity was created. It has a genetic material that, while on the face of it is “human”, the mitochondrial DNA has become mutated to the extent that those afflicted think it’s Christmas all year long. Those poor souls. Like the accursed from The Fog, they roam amongst us with their simple smiles and an overwillingness to high-six us.

The people of Stoneclough are doomed. The only way for us to survive is to start thinking ahead now. I am willing to sacrifice all to become a post-apocalyptic cult leader, to guide us against the oncoming onslaught from the genetically disadvantaged. Of course, this role demands that I have cattleprods, guns, a burrito chef and a harem of women who worship me.

This will be one of the toughest tasks I’ve ever undertaken, but I am ready. I am more than happy to comfort any woman in this darkest hour (so long as they’re fit).

Living as I do, surrounded by the technological and societal advantages of the twenty first century, it might be hard for anybody to comprehend the frustrations this luxurious lifestyle can bestow on a person. Some things do get on my tits though, probably because I don’t occupy a high enough position in this society to have somebody do things for me, i.e. I’m lazy.

I have an automatic washing machine, a tumble dryer and a dishwasher. They’re all labour-saving devices, but you still have to operate the things, then empty them, then put stuff away, or iron it. The summer weather brings its own disadvantages because you’re obliged to peg stuff out to dry it: four pegs for a bath sheet; three for a hand towels, tops and trousers; two for knickers; one per sock. For a load of washing, this could mean raising my arm about fifty times while coordinating the positioning of items on the line. My hands aren’s big enough to hold more than two pegs at a time and holding one in my mouth makes me gag. Awful. Then there’s the worrying about whether it’s going to rain, checking to see if it’s all dry, taking it off the line, folding it, putting it away.

Why has nobody invented disposable clothes?

As soon as I get the space, I’m going to replicate my crockery, cutlery and pans and invest in a second dishwasher. Then I’ll have one for dirty and one for clean; I’ll just be able to switch between the two without ever having to empty one and put the stuff away. Plus they never dry things properly and you always have to wipe over things with the tea towel as you put them away.

Sheesh. I seem ungrateful for this lifestyle. Should I really be bothered that I only get a 27mbps download from my broadband instead of 30? No, but it irks me. And why can’t I play Lovefilm or 4OD on my iPad through the TV? Why can’t I do that?

I clearly have too much time on my hands. Time that would be much better spent… ripping down my neighbour’s fucking wind chimes! What the hell was that at this ungodly hour??? Time that I should spend on philanthropic activities. Unfortunately for those who might benefit from such acts, my irritations only last for a matter of seconds and vanish as I hold up a shiny clean glass to the sunlight and marvel at its streak-free finish, the smile returns to my face. Oh yes, I actually do that.

My love of my dishwasher was reignited this evening as I had to wash some dishes by hand. Good grief, what a palaver. The task was even more traumatic because I had to do it in an ill-fitting washing up bowl without the benefit of washing up gloves. How do people even live like this?

In this house, Saturday is clean bedding day. Apart from today. Clean bedding Saturday is postponed for Sunday this week because I forgot to wash last week’s bedding and only subjected it to the boil wash today.

Why bother? There’s only me and the little dog who appreciate the crispness of the linen. There’s nobody else to grimace at the week old shabbiness. Essentially, unless you follow the standard of the weekly bedding change, you’re a scumbag. What follows is downward spiral in personal hygiene; showering on alternate days, wearing yesterday’s clothes, eating out of bins… or from the local pizza/kebab/burger/curry takeaway.

So because I like myself and I love my sleeping environment more than just about anywhere else in the house (with the exception of the smoking bench), the bed gets changed once a week.

But with singledom comes the utter misery of folding bedding on my own.

Engaging with a kingsize duvet cover is fairly traumatic, but there are straight edges that can be aligned and with the innovative use of the washing line or dining chair, it doesn’t take too long to perfect a method of getting the thing folded into something that resembles a folded piece of bed linen. Pillow cases are obviously a doddle. But the fitted sheet fills me with utter dread. It’s like doing battle with a huge nappy. Even the strategic use of the double washing line and several pegs results in failure when it comes to this particular piece of elasticated nightmare.

I’ve come to the conclusion that single people should sleep in single beds to save themselves this weekly torture. If you sleep in a single bed, you’re never going to be inviting anybody back to your place for a night of intimacy. Yet the double bed lures you into a false sense that one day, yes you, one day, you might take somebody to your boudoir in the throes of passion, only to have the moment destroyed as you throw back the duvet to reveal the horror that is the crumpled mess residing beneath. Those creases, they form a malevolent grin that mocks you. The passion dies and you’re left with the one option of crawling under your own bed in shame.

I exaggerate of course, and nothing, absolutely NOTHING, can be worse than throwing back the top sheet of a bed in a holiday villa to reveal this:

Wet
Me and the Little Dog have come to bed slightly wet, well soaked. The recent hot weather has finally been broken by torrential rain that trying its best to repair the damage to my patch that was inflicted through lack of hose-attention this past week.

After a day of being threatened by clouds, the heavens have opened and vertical rain is lashing the parched earth. The enjoyment of my bedtime cigarette was curtailed by, well, getting piss wet through. I didn’t mind it though and re-enacted the scene from Shawshank Redemption when Andy escapes from the sewage pipe into the storm. Then a load of hair product ran into my eyes and made them sting. They never show that in the bloody films, do they?

Sleepiness engulfs me. A day of doing nothing has taken its toll. I shall drift off to the sound of the rain and take with me the most beautiful thoughts in the hope that they come and meet me in Dreamland.

Tonight’s walk down the woods with the little dog has left me… annoyed and wishing that I could sit stupid people in a room and wear them down with logic and reason.

Me and the little feller were strolling along, he about twenty metres ahead of me as usual, when I noticed a big, massive bastard of man telling him to “get away!”.

“Will you put that dog on a lead, love?” he ordered me.

“No, he’s on his walk,” was my response.  It was then that I noticed that the man was being accompanied a woman who in turn was being dragged along by a huge rottweiler.

Now, the little dog is usually a pain in the arse with other dogs, but he was actually keeping his distance from this one.

“This dog is aggressive and dangerous and I don’t want him mauling yours or dragging my wife around while it tries to go for it.  It should be on a lead.”

Now, this is where I wish my brain would engage about 30 seconds earlier than it usually does because if it had, I’d have said:

“If it’s a dangerous or aggressive dog, it should be muzzled.  And if you’re worried about your wife being dragged around by it, why the fuck aren’t you holding the lead?  Also, have you considered that the dog needs some proper exercise and that’s why it might seem aggressive?  Look at it, it’s hugely overweight.”

Instead, I said, “I’m not putting my dog on its lead because it makes him anxious and snappy. Come on Rock.”  We went our separate ways.

His response was, “It should be on a lead, it’s THE LAW!”

“Errrm, no it isn’t”

And then his wife piped up, “It is down HERE!”

“Don’t talk rubbish”

Jesus, JESUS! If you’re happy to be dragged around by your dog, do it on the streets, not down the woods where normal people like to take their pooches for a nice run and a play you fucking knuckle-dragging retarded oaf.  And while I’m thinking about it, get a dog you can handle and give that one to somebody who’ll look after it properly, you fucking moron.

It makes my blood boil.

I want to get all the stupid people who encounter together in a room, give them a talking to, fry their brains by using words with more than two syllables, take a cattle prod to their eyeballs, then watch them all die… on fire.

Why do things like this affect me for hours after they happen?  Why can’t I just laugh off their stupidity instead of allowing it to make me feel like I’m the victim of a conspiracy from some sort of secret society of idiots and getting annoyed with myself?  Fuck! It’s no wonder people turn into serial killers.

I’m going to spend the rest of today’s waking hours punching myself in the head while those two are probably on their twelve can of super-strength cider and second bucket of fried chicken.

I share my office with nice people. Some are the sort who I might consider socialising with, others, not so. Some are educated, others less so.

It’s a difficult situation, mixing people from different backgrounds, who have different levels of education and different roles to play in the organisation.

To précis this, in a less polite way, I’m utterly fed up of sharing an office with people who can’t speak English properly.

Every day, my ears are assaulted by the most abominable misuse of our native language, but not wanting to cause a scene, I conduct my rampages within the confines of my mind while I rock in my office chair. “I am in my happy place. I am in my happy place.”

I feel like screaming out “It’s YOU not YOUSE! There’s no such fucking word as YOUSE!”

You ‘could of’, could you? Could OF? It is could HAVE!

And ‘them things’, I think you’ll find are THOSE things.

He who, not ‘him that’, or even worse, ‘him what’.

The letter T is rarely silent and the currency we use, as you should know, is pounds, not quid.

What exactly does ‘he’s went’ mean? Please explain this.

I am sat.

I might have to get all passive aggressive on their arses and put up a poster, a laminated poster. Or even request that they take remedial lessons in spoken English. Or maybe employ a bag of marbles a la poor old ‘Enry ‘Iggins.

I don’t have much in the way of formal education in English, I couldn’t look at a sentence and tell you anything other than its basic components. I don’t know what past participles are or, jeez, I don’t even know much grammatical terminology at all, but I know the basics and I cringe when people speak so poorly.

Rampage, destroy, be awesome.

Listening to my six year old niece talk, I place the blame at the feet of the teachers who fail to correct the misuse of language in their young charges. They must hear the way kids speak and yet they clearly aren’t doing anything to teach them the rights and wrongs of grammar. I’m forever correcting her, as is her mum and the rest of the family, but unless it’s reinforced at school and amongst her peers, it’s never going to sink in and she’s going to grow up sounding like she’s as thick as pigshit too.

How have we got to this stage where people in responsible jobs can’t even speak the bloody language properly? Who interviews these people and gives them jobs? Well, basically, people who speak the same as they do. It makes my fucking blood boil.

From tomorrow, I’m going to start employing my white board to send subliminal messages via a “word of the day” feature. I shall start by introducing the thus far unheard of ‘those’. Or maybe I should just start talking to me colleagues the way I do to my niece.