Bigga said:
January 1st.
I am sat here rocking in my bamboo douche chair as my head’s a tad foggy, this morning, after last night’s gala in my home. Something about Barbara Cartland and ‘swinging chandeliers’ keeps popping in to mind in flashback. It does seem that the gala for the Hirsute and Delicate Yorkshire Ladies and Royal Horticultural Society presents “Lady Gardens and Bushes” went quite well, though.
I awoke at the crack of Dawn and naturally began to stroke my handle bar as habit. The night drool has given it a bit of an impressive sheen, of late. This puberty lark isn't the hell I was once led to believe. The maids have a glint in their eye since I sprouted these handles and I may just give them a feel in their private quarters, later on. Perk the day up!
The late afternoon Brotherhood of Leather and Chains committee meeting was a bit of chore, with Albert complaining that his wheel barrowed swollen testicles needed some attention and the fact dear Barbara Cartland was still missing. Those flashbacks are becoming more bothersome, I must say!
Supper was made more interesting than the beef laced with Secret Swahili sauced marmalade wellington offering as Miss Cartland staggered in, tiara tilted, mink a skewed, sawed off shotgun carrying and muttering some garbled message of Ketamine being ‘the future’! Well, steam my monocle! Huzzah, she’s alive!
Marmaduke, my manservant, has just trotted in to inform me that a Mr Speilberg is on the line asking for permission to make more of my memoirs into a film for his character ‘Indian Johns’ or something! He’s had plenty to work off, in the last few years! Ah yes, I must remember to remind Marmaduke that his trotting form needs more work as his knees are not high enough!
Roll on tomorrow, then...
*Feel free to add an entry*
I'd had a feeling that some intransigent whippersnapper had secreted themselves in the fern house with a spyglass. Now I am au fait with the full horror of the intrusion I can arrange the doilies to better effect.
In response -
1) One's douche chair is always mahogany these days due to incumbent matters of weight.
2) 'Lady gardens' reminds one too, too much of Alana Titchmarsh and that fey, lost summer in Buda of 1913, the pest.
3) My pennyfarthing has neither a handlebar nor a sheen. Especially not one gained overnight by the frequent expulsion of emulsion from loins belonging to
either myself or those of familial culpability.
4) The fact that these intimate snippets have become the subject of wild speculation North of the Border in the person of TTTcityBhoy have rendered me incapable of ordering the spittoons to be filtered.
5) Marmaduke has not been in my employ since the regrettable incident involving the impersonation of J.K. Galbraith by Harry Potter and the subsequent collapse in the price of fitted codpieces. My current head provider is known as Dorcas and is on loan from Angela Merkin.
6) I have cut Spielberg dead since he refused to acknowledge that his blockbuster documentary about the life of crows, 'Caws,' was filmed in the woods beyond the King Zog Memorial Gazebo.
Apart from these minor contusions this summary of my life as it stands is remarkably accurate. I feel that in you, Bigga, I have a long lost soulmate and possibly a rival to the claim of rightful heir to the Probardship of St Waldeburg in the Wastes of Osbaldestone. A postal order of impressive magnitude may settle this matter. How say you?
