Diary
Saturday 21st May 1994
I forgot to set the video recorder for Bob Monkhouse.
Saturday 21st May 1994
I sometimes wonder how I could give birth to a creature like you.
Don’t you ever come to my funeral, because you won’t be welcome.
Your sister will be welcome. The others. Not you.
There’s a lot of your father in you. I can see that bastard in you, maybe you can’t.
Blame yourself you had the breakdown.
Blame yourself for being so weak.
Just think about it, the moment your sister hits 14, you’ll be surplus to requirements.
She can look after the others then.
Legal, that’ll be.
And then, when the child benefit runs out, they’ll be no more use for you.
You’re not as bloody indispensable as you think.
Saturday 21st May 1994
I forgot to set the video for Bob Monkhouse.
Nine words in the week-to-view WH Smith 99p pocket size diary.
I write them down because there’s no way I’ll be forgetting the other words attached to that gargantuan failure in my domestic responsibilities.
Whatever, she says, in her whatever way. It’s not like anyone will ever want to read anything you have to say about anything.
She tells me she’ll write her own words.
About the big-head cunt who thinks he’s so clever with his diary and his writing shit down when she’s speaking.
She tells me no-one’ll want to hear from me when she’s told them all what I really am.
Saturday 21st May 1994
I forgot to set the video for Bob Monkhouse.
Saturday 21st May 1994
Nine words. One day. Three hundred and sixty four others for me to choose from to write these words.
Can you imagine how much worse it would be if I found the entry for the day when I finally told her to fuck off?
