Nothing at all

There's a man sitting in a concrete room,
His heart full of emptiness and gloom.
With his head in his hands you'll hear him say,
"It's a long time ago since yesterday."
Then his hands gently droop and slowly fall
In his world full of nothing at all.
(Status Quo)

Here we are at the end of yet another week where there is less than nothing to report or tell anyone about. No date for the parole hearing and even less prospect of one - and of course not a word about a downgrading or a transfer to greener and pleasanter surroundings. My solicitor is doing his best but he is suffering under the same intransigence as I am myself. We live in hope - we have no choice in the matter.

However, I did manage to get a copy of the Rolling Stones' Greatest hits (1968-1972) so I can't complain.

I've had a virus! I may have mentioned it last week, can't remember. ( I only write this drivel, I don't waste my time reading it.) So, I had this viral thing and, like all men when they get a bit of a cold and/or a cough, I decided that I was dying, popping my clogs, handing in my dinner pail, shuffling off this mortal coil, heading for my reserved ticket on Charon's ferry and generally snuffing it. Boudica took the opportunity to take the piss, of course - "Diddums got a cold then?" seemed to be her attitude. Don't worry, I'll get her for it.

Apparently, I made a crack recently about wood and boarding up her mouth which she took exception to, although her sister almost choked on her tea when she read it - they've got a funny sense of humour those ladies. I'm not saying Boudica was rude about it, but the implication was there - she can be rude without trying (or possibly not knowing even, or caring). Women are quite good at that - the cutting remark that draws blood while they sit there, butter wouldn't melt, and say, "What?"

Anyway, the point is that Boudica has finally decided to put her enormous talent for poetry and storytelling to good use, as anyone will know if they have started to read her stories about her stupid and vandalistic mutt, Cassie. Boudica has put her hand to writing for children.

Now, anyone who knows me will know that being nice to Boudica is probably suicidal because she just thinks I am up to no good if I am nice to her, but it has to be said, she is good. Her poetry is first class and her prose keeps children giggling and entertained for hours. I've been at her for a long time now to write for kids, but listening to me is against her priciples apparently. Then Andrew mentioned that there is a huge market out there for children's stories and Boudica has finally decided to try to join the human race and take part in the march of humanity toward a better world - she is writing a tale for children. I'm looking forward to it because... well, let's face it, I never grew up. I'm just a big kid, like all the rest of the men on the planet - how else do you explain the popularity of train-sets?

Oh she is good, no doubt about it, and she has a great sense of humour really. (She needs one living with that dog - the world's only demolition team on four legs.) Come to think about it, a sense of humour probably helps when she has to deal with me, too - I'm usually termed, in her own words, "You miserable old bastard."

Okay, not disputing that, but do you know the best thing about being a bastard? I don't have to buy anyone a present on Father's Day.

The Voice In The Wilderness