IN WHICH MY MOTHER IS STILL BLOODY ALIVE
Mini Poopy and Shizzy and all my adorable fur-children waved goodbye to me at my rented gate in that Yorkshire as I dabbed my £895.39p shooboots across the rutted dales to my, or somebody I borrowed it off's, Landrover.
Mother has been calling for me. Why me, why ME. If only she would do the loving thing and die then people might feel sorry for me and stop treating me badly in shops. NOW she decides to remember who I am! I expect she's been telling the whole hospital my real date of birth and if that gets out the RS will squint piggily and disappear. Because everyone leaves me, even when I buy them cashmere tea bags.
My drunken old sister who falls over a lot has been threatening to sue me. Why me? WHY ME? I am going to start a campaign to make it legal to marry animals, and then Mickey the Cross Border Terrier and I can make our union legal. But if he leaves the seat up or dribbles on the cashmere table cloth, I will divorce him.