When they write my obituary in a, hopefully, very distant future there is one thing that I don’t want to see mentioned. Not that I’d be around to see it, but you know what I mean. What is that, you ask?

My journals. I have lots of them. I moved them this evening from the lockable shelves in the office to a lockable box in the basement. My book-collection is so expanded now that I need those shelves for my text books, and since this blog has become my journal, I thought I’d retire the paper-bound ones downstairs.

I think journals, if they are kept honestly and openly, are dangerous things. I leafed through them, and half-grinned and half-winced about the things I covered in them. Everything from wet dreams to certain unmentionable measurements. I’ve never held back in the journals.

Should they ever be made public, it will be such a scandal that I’d probably ignite half the town in gossip, and the rest would riot in the streets and burn the town down. Or my possible heirs would make a fortune off publishing the naive scribblings of their eccentric relative.

The only regret I have is that I am not very open and not so transparent here as I am in the journals. This is, after all, quite the sanitized version of my journals. My public persona, without much of the warts and flaws that people in my life can see and experience.

But life moves on, eh?


You realise that J K Rowling has moved on when you read about an erection in one of her books. Yes, I too could not resist, and got myself a copy of her latest effort, The Casual Vacancy.

I was extra keen on this book when I read that the Daily Fail, a newspaper that I abhor, had given it a rousing review. And I mean rousing in the sense that they excoriated it for its assault on British values. To the Daily Fail, British values are small-minded bigotry and petty superiority against everything foreign. Exactly the types of things that Vernon Dursley would think in relation to his nephew, Harry Potter.

Whenever Daily Fail is on about something, I almost feel honour-bound to take the exact opposite position. If I do, then I can imagine that I’m actually a member of the human race and not the Social-Darwinian class nightmare of that paper.


I had a bit of a surprise when I came home. Mark met me dressed only in his underwear, and he was so beaming that I thought he was in a naughty mood. Cue overload, drool, and filthy thoughts. Before my mind disconnected and the nether regions took over, he darted off again. The reason for his appearance was because he has started a new beer kit and didn’t want to spill things all over his clothes.

Do you see what I’m living with here? I feel so frustrated. My man doesn’t throw off his clothes and meet me in the hallway because he’s happy I’m home. He does it for a beer kit. And then, when he’s done, he just slouches on the sofa for three hours watching the footie.

If I have to go to therapy later, I can spend hours on that, and enrich the therapist beyond his or her wildest dreams about the frustrations inherent in beer kits and men. Other people get pregnant when they get naked, as well as some healthy exercise. We get beer and footie games.


We talked about who we were going to invite to the nuptials next summer too. I love it when we talk about it, because he becomes so up-beat, as if he really wants this. I know I do, but it is nice to get repeated confirmations that he does too.

It’s still almost a year away, so our talk is loose and unstructured, but it’s the kind of meaningless talks we have sometimes when we just lay there and dream about it. And it’s good to dream about it. I feel warm and fuzzy, and if possible I feel like I love him extra much.

Skin to skin, talking about the future, as if it’s set in stone. And it is, for us. Aside from normal bickering, there’s really nothing between us that could stop it. We’ve been together for 18 months soon. I know this guy. I still haven’t totally reconciled everything, because it seems too big to grasp, but I know that in August next year, he’ll be my husband and I’ll be his, and that makes me unspeakably pleased with myself.