My Diary

So, I’ve decided to try and keep a diary, a bit like Joe does in my book (the Private Blog of Joe Cowley, available to pre-order here if you’re willing to wait nine months) The only problem with this is, I have a really boring life. I mean, look at this:

Monday 15^th July

10 a.m.

Eating some biscuits. Think they might be a bit stale.

10.10 a.m.

No, they’re OK.

But today has actually been reasonably eventful, so I’ve got a bit of a second wind. Here we go:

Monday 22^nd July

9 a.m.

Just been outside, sweeping leaves. This was much easier when they weren’t still attached to the tree.

Neighbour still not talking to me for some reason. And to think, I was about invite him to my next trombone night.

10.20 a.m.

Visited my so-called best friend, Fat Barry. He’s writing a list of possible Royal baby names.  He’s really into that kind of thing. He owns a Camilla Parker-Bowles tea set and everything. I’ve lost count of the amount of burned crumpets I’ve eaten off her face.

After a bit, he started getting all huffy with me so I left. He’s like a broken record, ‘They can’t call the royal baby Prop Joe, don’t be daft, blah, blah, blah.’

12 p.m.

Went to the supermarket. Did a bit of flirting with the attractive lady on the checkout. I like to think of myself as a body language expert, and the way she kept avoiding eye contact, tutting and calling security over the tannoy was pretty thrilling.

1.30 p.m.

Put my glasses on next door’s cat for a laugh, but then it climbed a tree and refused to come down. I was going to tempt it down with some fish, but I didn’t have any in the house, and I don’t think it’s falling for the fake one I made out of sugar paper.

2 p.m.

I was going to put some milk in a saucer to try and get it but it turned out I forgot to buy milk from the shop. Sneaked into the dairy farm down the road and squeezed a bucket full of milk from the first cow I could find.

2.05 p.m.

This milk tastes funny.

2.10 p.m.

Called the farmer to complain about his lousy milk. He said, ‘One: if I catch you trespassing on my land again, I’ll kill ya, and two: I don’t keep cows on my farm. Only donkeys.’

2.15 p.m.

Vomiting.

2.40 p.m.

Still vomiting.

2.45 p.m.

Stopped vomiting.

2.50 p.m.

False alarm. Still vomiting.

3.05 p.m.

Gone out for some fresh air. Jehova’s Witnesses saw me and crossed the road. Last time they came, I kept them talking for three hours. Sometimes I get lonely.

3.10 p.m.

Had another quick vomit.

3.15 p.m.

Lost a staring contest against my dog. Shouted, ‘You win this round, Terry.’ Didn’t even blink. Sometimes I think this game would be more fun if Terry wasn’t a toy I won out of a grabber machine.

5 p.m.

Caught up with some friends. They’ll never outrun me.

5.10 p.m.

My so-called best friend Fat Barry came over and apologised for being rude earlier. I let him in and made him a cup of tea. A milky cup of tea.