Yesterday was cleaning day, and, like the good houseman I am, that’s just what I did, the whole flat, from top to bottom, dusted, polished, scrubbed and shined, behind the pots and underneath the beds. Did I ever tell you I have a dust allergy….?

Anyway, I promised you all a poem about cleaning some weeks back, so I put my pen to paper, and tried putting myself in the position of a mother of two who has to do this everyday. See what you think here.

Depressing news – America sees the light and takes a big swing to the left, so what does Europe do? Swings to the right of course. Is this some kind of reactionary relationship between the electorates or are they actually planning to meet in the middle? Not that the middle ground is particularly appealing, but moderation does seem to be the message of the day.

Everyone over here keeps asking who’s going to pay for the deficit caused by banking crash, but no-one’s seriously thought about asking the banks for our money back, now they’re making a profit…

It is hot today. Much too hot. It is so hot I am having difficulty breathing. Hell, I’m having difficulty moving my fingers across the keyboard. They slide rather than move – I can see me having to clean the damned thing once again. Did you know keyboards are the one of the dirtiest places in hte office, with more germs per square inch than on a toilet seat? It’s true. Damn. It’s still hot. I should be back on the beach, but it’s probably still windy there, so I’ve gritted my teeth and managed to add three paragraphs to my new story “A Short Trip at Sea.”

What do you mean, “only three paragraphs?” In this weather that is a fucking miracle, I am telling you. I can actually hear the blood boiling in my ears. The same thing happens when I hear Americans slagging of Obama for trying to introduce the Nazi NHS to America, but that’s another story entirely.

I am now consoling myself by looking at pictures of my wedding together with my wife. I think we are going to get divorced, just so that we can get married again….

Today began with two paracetamol. Now I don’t know about you but when it comes to killing those heavy duty hangover pains, paracetamol does it for me. In fact, I managed to break my arm once, and, after the operation, I was subjected to hitherto unbeknown levels of pain. Now the hospital was very good and they did all they could to shut me up including two injections of opiate based pain killers. The thing is with these is that you still feel the pain but you’re not that bothered about it because you feel so good anyway. To my simple mind, however, that is an ineptly named pain killer. For me, a pain killer is something that makes the pain go away. After two days of different pain killing cocktails ala Mick, the nurse turned up with a paracetamol the size of a golf ball. “It’s the only thing we haven’t tried,” she said mistrustfully, peering into my glazed pupils, and proceeded to stuff it down my throat. After the agony of swallowing it and fifteen minutes wait – bliss, it really worked. As I said, paracetamol really does it for me, which brings me to my first sad thought of the day, that if Michael had stuck to a proper pain killer like paracetamol, which stops your pain without stopping you caring, then he’d probably still be with us today.

Which brings me to my second thought, which really just goes to show how effective the fucking media is, I too, am now obsessing about Michael.  I was just watching telly and saw congress actually standing in remembrance of Michael. Now don’t  get me wrong, I think Michael deserves all the reverence he gets, but we are talking about a person known for substance abuse, had questionable relationships with children – and no, we don’t want to go there – and is a pauper. These are all values which are not exactly highly revered in American society and yet here we see the pinnacle of American society revering just that. This I take to be empirical evidence of the ensuing insanity of American, and, dare I say it, Western society. Well, so be it.