Update #81

Blah. Blah blah. Blah blah blah. Meh.

That is pretty much all I can say to sum up my week. I feel emotionally and mentally drained. I am craving a quiet and peaceful life in which my home is once again my sanctuary and the summer sun that forces it’s rays through my window can once again tempt me into enjoying the real outside world. Instead, I am living in a pit of material confusion, with all of Weston’s stuff randomly scattered about the house and Robyn achieving very little in the way of moving out. I have taken several days off work under the guise of recharging my batteries, but the truth is I have lost all motivation when it comes to doing anything financially productive. All I want to do is tidy my home, decorate, cook meals and look after my son. Oh, and Weston. Even he has managed to turn me into his personal laundry service. Not  that I mind. Being useful and needed by the two men under my roof has ultimately stopped me from sinking into a little bubble of melancholy.

Of course, the outside world is creating a far more energetic life story for me. As is typical of small towns, the gossip grapevine here is ripe. This place is like a strange vortex for rumour mongering and is as if the residents here cannot physically stop themselves from indulging in tattle tales and muck spreading. When sucked in they lose all sense of reality, going so far as to make up complete fabrications should your name not have made it into the top ten of newsworthy antics recently. This spirals down into a shallow and mindnumbingly boring game I refer to as The ‘He Said, She Said’ Game. I dislike this game immensely. A caricature of real conversation, stripped of any intellectual thought or common sense, its goal is nothing more than to confuse, goad and agitate. The inside of my skull aches with the frustration of it all.

Weston came home the other night to inform me that Billy had heard a whole new take on the Robyn and Perry debacle. In a version of ‘He Said, She Said’, Billy was told it was I who apparently had been having an affair with Perry. I’ve heard this one before. Although I must admit to having a past with Perry, it pains me. The thought of letting that weaselly little prick anywhere near me makes my skin crawl. Weston, having spent the other weekend at mine and therefore an unwillingly witness to the whole sorry mess, was able to put Billy straight. Billy concurred that the source of his information was less than reliable. As the men discussed this latest furore, they found themselves shocked and disgusted by their own behaviour,

‘What are we doing? How does any of this matter to us?!’ They had said when caught out by their own gossiping.

I laughed as Weston told me what had occurred, Their reaction was so like my own. Not my circus, not my monkeys, after all. Of course, there was also comfort in their involvement. As crazy as it sounds, when the men of the town start gossiping too, you know shit has escalated to a point of unfathomable, farcical ridiculousness.

Perry, however, is not the only man I am meant to be sleeping with. The grapevine informed my son this week that his dear old mother was a regular bed companion to the lovely Billy himself. My 15 year old son, like I, laughed heartily. I adore Billy, I really do, but I often refer to him as the little brother I never wanted and the concept of sleeping with him is not only amusing, but slightly disturbing. I am reminded of all the stories that have circulated about me in the past; I’ve been pregnant at least three times this past year, I’m on some weird sex rota with three cousins, I’m married, divorced, gay, and I’ve had endless stints in rehab. Oh, what I would do for the peace and quiet of rehab right now!

In more positive news, Amber is coming to stay at the weekend and some quality time with her, Adele, Blue and Magic Mike XXL is exactly what the doctor ordered. Should I have actually have seen a doctor. Despite the blah blah blah, I am still free of medication, free of panic attacks and under no real risk of slumping back into a dangerous depression. I have my true friends, I have my son. I have my home, my career and my future travel plans. I have a new housemate who actually fixes things and pays rent! I have the sunshine beaming through the window, taunting me with its promises of bronzed skin and the strengthening powers of Vitamin D. I have so much more than those I have left behind. I will let the rumours ride out, for as my father used to say, ‘all the while they are talking about you, they are not talking about someone who cannot handle it’.

Girl Crush Alert: Ruby Rose


I am quite sure I’m not the only heterosexual woman or gay man to be questioning their sexuality since Australian actress and model Ruby Rose hit worldwide super stardom recently. I first saw her, like so many others, in her role as Stella in Orange Is The New Black and I am not ashamed to admit that I have been crushing like a 12 year old fan girl ever since.

I’ve always been a strong believer in the fluidity of sexuality and although my own position on the Kinsey scale would have me marked as a firm follower of the cock, I’ve never been naive or ignorant enough to think there wasn’t a woman out there who could turn my head. I’ve always appreciated the beauty of other women, but have never found myself sexually aroused by one. That is, until Ruby Rose. I mean, come on…

She is stunning. Those eyes, those lips! Where the media have jumped on the androgynous band wagon and hailed Ruby Rose as an icon for gender diversity, a mantle she is proud to carry and rightly so, I personally see a striking example of complete womanhood. She carries her beauty with a humble class and elegance. She embodies strength of character, creativity and originality without sacrificing femininity and softness. There is a freedom, a freshness, about her that attracts me like a moth to a brightly, burning flame. Plus, she’s engaged to Roald Dahl’s granddaughter which, as a lover of literature from a young age, just makes her a million times cooler in my book!


That Damn Black Towel

sexEvery afternoon he comes home from work, filthy dirty from his job landscaping. His work boots are kicked to the side of the room and his sweat drenched t-shirt is thrown into the laundry pile. He knows how attractive I find a man who labors for his living. He sits and rolls himself a joint, then absentmindedly rattles off tidbits of information about his day. He moans about the new kid, berates his boss and tells tales of banter with his work colleagues. He adds up in his head how much he has earned and how long before he will be debt free. When he is a little calmer and more relaxed after his day grafting, he heads to the shower.

This, dear reader, is where living with Weston is proving quite the challenge. Although we agreed that we would not be sleeping together any more, Weston has gone out of his way to make that a near impossibility. He’ll walk out of the bathroom with just a black towel tied around his waist, the water dripping from his hair down his tanned back. He knows what he is doing. He watches me from the corner of his eye as I tell him to stop teasing me. Sometimes he’ll wander around in just a pair of jeans, fully aware that I find a decent torso, jeans and bare feet a huge turn on. Sometimes he will let the towel drop to the floor and stand there in all his glory, naked and brandishing the mother of all erections. I’ve taken to playing him at his own game and now routinely walk around in little skirts or lean forward enough that he gets a full view of my ample cleavage. I’ve even handed him a mug of coffee with one breast exposed, just to see his reaction. It was obvious to both of us that these little games couldn’t go on forever. One of us was bound to cave. As it happens, we caved at exactly the same moment in the early hours of Sunday morning.

After saying goodbye on the doorstep to Billy, Handsome, Shortstuff and Slim, I had made my way back to the sofa where Weston and I had been snuggled up only moments before. I draped my legs over his and allowed his hand to slide between my thighs. It only took one glance and all the pent up sexual frustration, all the flirting and innuendos, all the restrictions we had put upon ourselves, reached a hot and intense crescendo. By the time I’d gently twisted my fingers around the neck of his t-shirt to pull him closer to me, his lips had already connected with mine. He kissed me with urgency as his strong hands slid over my wanting body. His scent, his taste, the weight of his body against mine, it was all intoxicating.

I ran my hands up his back and across his torso, then pulled his t-shirt over his head. His skin felt like warm marble against my lips and fingers. My nails dug into his flesh as he caressed my breasts, tugging at my bra so he could wrap his soft, firm lips around each of my nipples in turn. Slowly he moved down my body, kissing my stomach, then my inner thighs, until his face was buried deep in my eager wet pussy.

I’ve never known him go down on me with such fervour. Pinning my thighs apart with his muscular arms I was powerless to resist as he brought me to an intense and electric climax over and over again. My moans of pleasure matched his as he became more aroused with each of my orgasms. When I could take no more, he licked and kissed his way back up my body, the scent of me fresh on his chiseled jaw.

‘Fuck me,’ I whispered breathily into his ear.

I heard the sound of his belt unclasp and his jeans drop to the floor. There he stood before me, like he had so many afternoons that week, naked with a proud erection. The definition of his body was highlighted by the glow of the streetlight coming through the window.

‘Fuck me’.

Weston did just that. Our bodies entwined on the living room floor, we grinded together for what seemed like a bliss filled eternity. Every time our eyes locked, another forceful, passionate kiss followed. We licked, we sucked, we groped and fondled. The power of the man pounding between my spread legs was consuming me, the heat and the want transcendent. Eventually he let out a loud moan with one deep, final thrust and we collapsed in an exhausted, satisfied embrace.

We fell asleep on that floor, our naked selves draped across one another, and awoke several hours later to the sound of busy traffic and bustling pedestrians outside. A mock argument over who would use the shower first resulted in us using it together, him eventually drying my hair for me with that black towel he had used to lure me in all week. Nothing has been said about us lapsing on our sex rule because nothing needs to be said. While we are both single, having a housemate you can have great sex with is proving to be one hell of a perk.

Out Of The Nettles


Billy, Slim, Weston, Shortstuff, Handsome and me. It was a cool summer’s evening like so many we had spent together before, but this time things were a little different. This time we were enjoying each others company fully aware how fragile relationships can be and eager to reassure one another that our morals, our ethics, are in tune enough to weather any storm. It was subtle, but what we were doing was touching base, regrouping, reconnecting.

This was what I needed after a crazy week of drama and dilemma. I didn’t need the over analyzing of women with their bitching and berating, finger pointing and shaming. I needed the company of men, several men in fact, who knew me well and instinctively knew how to pick me up. I needed Billy, Slim, Weston, Shortstuff and Handsome. I needed some decent Russian vodka, music to dance to and a shit load of cocaine. Escaping reality with drugs and alcohol was not what I had intended to do that night, but as I struggled more and more with being left alone with my own head, it came as a welcomed distraction. Weston had seen this. It had been him who had invited them over.

We reminisced about house parties, music festivals and lazy weekends spent in pub gardens. We teased each other about past conquests and drunken misadventures. We danced, we sang, we told stupid, childish jokes, we played cards and threw about cheesy innuendos like they were going out of fashion. We laughed until our stomachs hurt and the tears rolled down our faces.

I’ve always got on better with men than with women. Not only was I more interested in football than dolls as a child, but I always found the boys played more adventurous games, only talked about what really mattered and were always pushing each other forward instead of trying to hold one another back. I remember one summer spent in a makeshift tree house in the middle of a field. No girl would dare use the rope swing because if you lost your grip, as so many of the boys had done, you would plummet several feet into a ditch full of stinging nettles. It took me weeks to pluck up the courage to get on that rope swing. When I finally did, not one lad there said I couldn’t do it. They didn’t tell me to think about it, question my decision or go about judging my choice. They didn’t smile eagerly to my face then huddle together to mock me. They just let me get on with it and then picked me up out of the stinging nettles some thirty seconds later.

‘It’s so nice being back here,’ Slim said as the sun began to rise and we all collapsed in disheveled piles around the living room, ‘thank you Lola’.

Slim had been at my place several times over the previous months, but after a rocky end to a not-quite-relationship with Robyn, he had pretty much disappeared from our social circle and avoided awkward run ins with her at all costs. To be fair, he had been a giant prick and I saw first hand how she had struggled with his rejection but, despite this, there was still something highly entertaining about Slim that I was prepared to welcome back with open arms, especially now that my loyalty wasn’t trained elsewhere.

‘Where the fuck did you get ‘exiled to Ireland’ from?’ Billy questioned Slim.

Slim had fought off Robyn’s advances by telling her ‘we can’t be together because my family are making me go back to Ireland’. A few weeks later he was in the local pub, no closer to Ireland, and his ruse had been discovered. To this day it remains a constant source of humour to Billy and the rest of us, purely because of its stupidity and obvious fail factor,

‘I don’t know,’ Slim confessed, ‘The words just sort of came out and I couldn’t stop them!’

He turned to me, his voice a little softer now that he wasn’t addressing the whole crowd, ‘I’m sorry Lola,’ he said, ‘I did like the girl, I thought she was alright. I never thought she’d do something like this’.

I looked at Billy and Slim in turn, ‘What have you heard?’

‘I thought she was sound,’ Billy added, ‘I’m disappointed in her to be honest and I’m sad for you’.

All the lads, one by one, chipped in a tale of Perry’s drug addiction and pussy focused lifestyle, as well as shock at Robyn’s swift departure. Although they could all see it coming and were expecting a Perry and Robyn drug induced hook up, none of them had predicted such a degree of deception followed by such a fallout.

‘Fuck her!’ Shortstuff announced from the other side of the room, ‘Fuck her! Shes got no other friends round here, so fuck her! And hes a fucking idiot anyway!’

Harsh, but fair. I’ve come to expect nothing less from Shortstuff over the years and his constant negativity and grumbling are now what we all love about him. I rarely see him smile, let alone laugh, but that night he had giggles and chuckles in abundance.

‘I felt awful about what I did to her,’ Slim said as he racked up another line of cocaine on a DVD case, ‘but I feel much better about it now!’

This is what I love about having men as friends. They tell it how it is. No sugar coating, no saying what they think you want to hear. Just their opinions as they see them. I cut the Perry and Robyn conversation dead. They’d had enough of my time over the last few years as it was,  I wasn’t prepared to give them another minute. Instead, I handed out more glasses of whiskey on the rocks, rolled a cigarette and watched my friends wind each other up and play fight over music and movie choices.

By 6am we were beginning to lag and Handsome offered to drive us all somewhere for breakfast. Weston and I, comfortably cuddled up on the sofa and in no fit state to be seen in public, turned down the invitation and I gave each of my friends a sincere and grateful hug goodbye on the doorstep. I stood and watched them walk away, listening to the banter continue until they were well out of sight. I may have lost my grip, but they had successfully pulled me out of the nettles.

Back indoors, Weston was exactly where I had left him. I slung my legs onto his lap and took a sip of my drink. His hand slid between my thighs and rested there, effortlessly. I looked at him, a half smile on my face and a naughty twinkle in my eye. ‘What?’ he said, smiling back at me…

Update #80

self destruct

To say I’ve been to hell and back this past week is an understatement. I have never craved all my self destructive vices more. In fact, the very worst of them have reared their ugly heads and it has taken all my strength to say no.

I don’t know where to start in describing the utter shithouse of a week I have endured. I know there are currently people in my life who have it so much worse, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am completely torn apart. Small shards of who I was and who I tried to be are scattered beyond my reach.

I learned of the death of a good friend and mentor this week. A remarkable man of intellect and wisdom, who showed me compassion and encouragement when I needed it most. I felt his loss harder than I imagined I would. My heart is heavy as I remember the great impact he had on my youth and how proud he was of me the last time I saw him. A victim of Alzheimers, his remarkable brain and creativity have been lost for some time. I have shed many tears for this wonderful man, but am relieved that he is now whole and at peace.

The bullshit drama surrounding Robyn, Perry and Jemima continues. The lies and stories being spouted now have reached a comical level. As explained to me in a message from Perry, everything is all my fault. I’m not allowed to be upset or angry about the events that have unfolded, I’m certainly not allowed to discuss my hurt with Blue and I deserve to have everyone leave me. Oh, and there was the threat of divulging my ‘deepest, darkest secrets’ to the whole town. I can only wish him luck with that, considering all my secrets are on here anyway and none of them are particularly deep or dark these days!

I guess Perry and Robyn have concocted some tale that alleviates them of any guilt and puts me in prime position for scapegoat. Jemima, by all accounts, is choosing to believe them. It’s actually laughable that Perry remains in control of the whole situation. He is the only one in contact with both Jemima and Robyn, so he can play it to his advantage without anyone challenging him. Credit where it is due, he is a crafty cunt. I’m reminded of the time my doctor told me he was ‘dangerous’ and to be avoided at all costs. How I’m kicking myself now for not listening to her.

The ironic thing is, I held back some details of this whole fuck up in the hope that Robyn could provide some logical explanation that wouldn’t see everyone getting hurt. I really wanted to be proven wrong and for her to come out of this situation completely clean. I didn’t mention, before now, seeing Perry leaving Robyn’s bedroom half dressed. I didn’t mention how I confronted him and called him a disgusting cunt. I didn’t mention his response, ‘I won’t apologise for my actions, but I will apologise for who I am and the way I go about things’. Idiot. I held back all these things in the hope that they could be explained away somehow. They weren’t. Coming clean to Jemima and telling her all that I knew was pointless. I wanted her to see I wasn’t covering up for them and that she had my loyalty. It was a waste of time. It’s now a classic case of shoot the messenger.

I keep thinking that maybe I should be crying or curling up into a depressed ball of uselessness, but I’m just not. I’m remembering that they’re all several years younger than me and are still in the throes of believing everything has to be a major life event. They don’t realise fully that they are not the centre of the universe, but merely the little people. They’re still at the point of blaming a life that owes them and pointing fingers in the playground, rather than owning their own shit. I’ve been through enough crap and drama to now enjoy my role as a little person. Peace, quiet, calm, simplicity. I can identify the benefits. I’m not upset because it is not a loss. Just a spring clean. Life’s way of removing the clutter and exterminating the parasites.

On the up side, my son is extremely enthusiastic about having Weston around and seeing the men outnumbering the women in our household for a change. My work life is going from strength to strength and Adele, Blue and Amber never fail to put a smile on my face. The Tattooed One continues to be a source of support and both Mr.Surprise and the Canadian Mountie have popped up recently for some ego boosting flirtations. Life could be a lot worse.

The last few days have been horrific. I have wanted to reach for copious amounts of drugs, bottle after bottle of vodka and to fuck anything that crosses my path, just so I could get outside of my own head for a while. But I haven’t, because the mindless actions of a few desperate and naive people are no longer enough to make me lose my shit.

Roses Are Red, Jealousy Is Green…


‘Yes Weston,’ I teased, ‘I am going on a date with a 54 year old man. He looks a lot younger and seems really filthy’.

‘But 54? That’s the same age as my Dad!’ He appeared genuinely shocked.

‘I love fucking younger men, but they’re not going to take me to dinner, or the theatre or buy me a first edition Austen. Older guys know how to be romantic. Whats wrong with me having some of that in my life?’

I meant what I said. It is incredibly flattering when a much younger man chooses to flirt with you over some hot, scantily clad 18 year old and its even more ego boosting when they start begging to take you to bed, but a woman’s self esteem relies on a lot more than a muscular torso and a cheeky grin. As much as I hate to rely on others for anything, getting compliments from a man and being treated like a lady is hugely beneficial to my self worth. And I deserve some romance. What’s wrong with liking flowers, leisurely countryside walks and evenings dressed up to the nines?

Weston rolled his eyes, ‘Well if you’re going to fuck him, don’t do it on my sofa!’

Poor Weston has been resident on my sofa for over a week now. With Robyn moving out, it is only a matter of time before he gets his own room, but I can see how frustrated he is about potentially getting in my way. I have assured him he’s not, but I’d like him to have his own space, for his benefit more than anything. He’s been sofa surfing for most of his life and I can tell it’s exhausting for him.

The ease at which Weston and I have adapted from casual fuck buddies to full time roomies is quite remarkable. One of the first house rules we discussed was regarding sex. We were concerned that things would become complicated if we continued to sleep together, but at the same time, neither of us wanted to remove any future sex from the table. We agreed that we would only sleep together in times of dire necessity, extreme lust or drunkenness and, in light of recent events, said we would ask before sleeping with each others mates. Its an arrangement that suits us both perfectly, but something tells me that he is going to struggle with my ‘house guests’, more than I will struggle with his.

The other day Weston and I were watching an episode of Orange is The New Black, where the prison officer gives one of the female inmates, a keen gardener, a packet of rose seeds. I made some cute, girly, ‘awwww’ noise, to which Weston was surprised to learn I found the whole exchange really romantic,

‘He can’t give her real roses because she’s in prison and he is her guard,’ I explained, ‘so he gives her the next best thing. It is so cute!’

Again he rolled his eyes like I was some sappy Mills and Boons fan. Today, when Weston returned home from work, he threw a packet of rose seeds at me and plonked himself down on the sofa. With faux nonchalance he grinned,

‘Well, I can’t give you real ones because you’re my housemate… So when is this date with the old bloke?’

Nie Mój Cyrk, Nie Moje Małpy

‘Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy‘ is a Polish proverb that, roughly translated, means ‘not my circus, not my monkeys‘. I have been clinging to this phrase for the last few days as if it is a buoyancy raft for my rapidly drowning mental well being. 

The drama that unfolded at the weekend regarding my housemate Robyn and Perry, Jemima’s boyfriend, has hurtled like an out of control train into a giant pile of stinking manure. There is no going back on the things that have been done or the lies that have been told. My head has been in a whirlwind of ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ as I’ve tried to figure out why I seem to be portrayed as the villain in a tragedy that is not of my making.

The last time I spoke to Jemima, to use a well known English phrase, I lost my shit. I cannot even count the conversations we have had analysing Perry’s thought processes and trying to decipher one lie from another half truth. I have heard over and over again of yet another betrayal and another deception. I love Jemima with all my heart and would happily push just about anybody off a cliff to keep her and her son safe and happy, but there are limits to how much of her denial I can deal with. Watching her stay by Perry’s side, to cling to the smallest piece of hope, is like watching a small child repeatedly put their hand in a fire. She gets burned, she feels the pain, she knows the fire is bad, but yet she continues to believe that this time around the flames will behave differently and spare her. They never do. It is frustrating and heartbreaking to listen to her question something I know to be true.

Perry, I have come to believe, is more mentally ill than anyone had ever realised. I know people will go out of their way to save their own skin and I have heard first hand some truly ridiculous excuses pour from the mouths of desperate men, but the games he plays no longer feel like a man just trying to cover his own back. He seems to enjoy them. He tells Robyn one thing, me another and Jemima barely anything at all. He is an intelligent, mentally ill addict and that combination can be lethal. The last time his compulsive lying reached a psychotically chaotic level, I bore the brunt of it. It threatened my friendship with Jemima, it made me doubt Robyn and it forced me to revoke any trust I had ever placed in anyone. With hindsight I can see I was right to doubt Robyn. Perry had cleverly used a slither of truth to his own advantage, placing a crack in our friendship that could later be ripped wide open. He has it all now. An exhausted and desperate girlfriend who will sacrifice her own sanity to save the life she built for them, and a mistress who will feed his ego and happily give up those around her without asking for anything in return. More often than not I have found myself asking why he feels the need to place me at the centre of these dramas. I cannot fathom why he claims I am such a good friend to him, if he can so easily dupe me and rip apart my family.monkey2

That’s what they were, my family. Jemima, Blue, Robyn, Adele, even Perry. My father is dead, I haven’t spoken to my sister in two years and the only contact I have with my mother is that which is forced upon me because of her relationship with my son. I do not have a family unit I can turn to in times of anguish or jubilation. There is no-one who will readily accept me as I am or love me unconditionally. I have no biological support network. Instead, I have my friends. That unit is broken irreparably now and Perry’s cursed words are it’s ground zero. I don’t know what he is saying or to who, but I know that Jemima is blindly believing him, Robyn doesn’t have the courage to face me and Perry no longer needs to. All three of them can talk to each other, but I am top of the ‘DO NOT CONTACT’ pile. I couldn’t understand why. I still can’t. I have not lied to anyone or divulged any secrets, there is no deception or manipulation on my part. I was just thrown in the middle of a circle of dynamite and forced to watch each stick explode and haphazardly trigger the next. None of this was of my doing and none of it should be my concern. Eventually, Blue offered some rational words to calm my head,

‘Robyn and Perry are still talking because they’re sleeping together. Robyn is talking to Jemima because she needs Jemima to believe her, probably because Perry told her so. None of them are talking to you because you know the truth and will call them on their bullshit straight away…Perry is in the middle of all of this. Again’.

Again. That was the word I needed to hear. Again. Perry has been fucking up my shit for far too long, starting all the way back with the Cricketer, and whatever his motives are, it is only possible because I have let him. I have let him use me as an alibi and a scapegoat, all under the guise of friendship. The very best thing I can do for myself and my mental health is to stop focusing on doubt and lies, to separate myself from that which does not directly matter, and to look at what is true.

I am true. Blue is true. My son is true. My career and life ambitions are true. My home is true. My loves and passions are true. What I have now and what I am building for my future is true. Perry and his endless stream of bullshit are not a factor in any of those things. They are not, and cannot be, tainted by him.

As for Robyn, I still don’t know where she is, what she is doing or if I’ll ever even see her again. She hasn’t been in touch with me and I have now given up on any possibility of an amicable and civil discussion about anything. I have doubts about every aspect of our friendship, its validity and the moments it held. What else has she lied so blatantly to me about? What other unhealthy secrets has she kept? I think of all the times she’s told me things that have directly impacted my choices, like when she told me Noel wanted nothing to do with me. Maybe that was the truth, maybe it was a version of it, maybe it was a total fabrication. I’ll never know and that is what gets to me the most. I will never know the truth behind anything she ever said. I have informed her, regrettably via text message, that she has six weeks to move out of my house; a decision that was not taken lightly but is paramount to keeping an environment in which I feel comfortable and in which trust, honesty and true friendship can flourish.

The poison that is Perry has already been told in no uncertain terms to never contact me again and I’ve even had to push Jemima away through fear that the constant ‘he said, she said’ conversations drive me to a padded cell in a secure facility. When Robyn finally leaves that will hopefully be the end of this charade for me. The Polish have another phrase, ‘gdzie diabeł mówi dobranoc‘. It means ‘where the devil says goodnight and is used as the equivalent to the English ‘running like hell‘. That is what I plan to do now, to say goodnight to the devil and to run like hell. I will run like hell away from this circus because these are, most definitely, not my monkeys.