An Unexpected Diary Entry

I do not usually approve of such things as diary entries (in case one reads anything highly alarming or dubious), but I thought I should include one today. My father never approved of diaries, thinking them crass and obscene articles to be banished along with the egg whisk. This week has been a horror! My computing machine is on the blink, the hedgenet socket at the base of my tree has blown a piffle-fuse, I’ve had raging Piddock Flu, and it seems my sister, Bench (above), has forgotten to come and collect her daughter who arrived for a weeks stay – over a month ago. I have written her a letter, and this is the response I got this morning.

Dearest Bernard,
I am so glad you wrote, dear! Poor poor Folly! I’d had this nagging feeling that I had mislaid something. It was only when I read your letter that I realised it wasn’t the pinking shears, but my own darling child. Do send her back, dear, and I am so sorry to have been such an imposition.
You know it’s been a trial for me since she was born, and I honestly thought that now she’d turned thirty, things would be easier. Tell me, has she grown much?
I eagerly await her return,
Warmest love and deepest apologies,

Bench (P.S. Any chance of borrowing fifty quid, old girl? I’ve got a soiree on the east side of the docks at midnight next tuesday. x

Well, I became a little exasperated with her at this point. Bench is a terribly selfish creature, she’s so absorbed in the Weasel Stretching Foundation that she doesn’t give a second thought to others – and that’s without mentioning her chosen line of late night work. But I’m not entirely unsympathetic. Folly (pictured) is a treasure, but she’s dreadfully thick for a girl her age, and playing with traps and poisonous plants in the garden is asking for disaster. Only yesterday, she set fire to her own shoes then pushed them into a letterbox (a public one – so you can imagine I was wondering if my letter to Bench had been collected at all). Thus, I can’t do much more about it this evening, so we’ll have a pleasant dinner before I take the spiders out for a last wee. I’ve got an adder or two left in the freezer and some chicory that needs polishing off so I’ll create something Michel Roux would be in awe of. Perhaps.

A Letter From Aunt Bench About…Well…Folly’s Mood.

I received another letter from Bench this morning, dated two days (!) after Folly’s departure. The cheek of the woman exasperates me so I apologise for the clipped tone of this post but I really am as dreadfully mad as a cut snake.

Why she comes to me I know not, perhaps I am a soft touch? Are the luxuries of my draughty hedge-home too inviting? My hessian crackers and gin breakfasts too tempting? Whatever it is, I shall stop at once. My mother once said – Family are the most precious things, Bern, but remember they won’t ALL fit under your patio. Dear woman, rest her soul.

This is the letter…..

Kindest Dearest Bestest B,

I need to ask a favour, dear. Folly is really trying my patience – I’ve had to call in some lumberjacks to tie her to a dining chair as she’s had one of her heads on. To cut a long story short, she’s poured custard into all my shoes and hidden small incendiary devices all over the house. Aunt Weevil and Doctor Prong have suggested I get away, so I will come to stay if the idea does not rankle with you?

Notwithstanding, it is quite doing my nut in, dear. I can’t go to Aunt Vom as she’s still in the nick, and Mary-Jaffa is still Mary-Jaffa. So I’m coming for a few ——– (typically, this part was illegible). As the carriage journey is so long, I’ve written this six days before I leave so I should be with you in ten minutes.

Folly is being observed by our neighbour, Mrs Coddy, a dear soul. She can see our house from hers, since Folly stole the 7ft hedge last month. Well, see you shortly, pop a gin in a glass for me and I’ll bring the hemlock shortbread.
Pip pip, and tatty bye
-Bench

The woman is absolutely the limit. Folly should have been encouraged to move out now that she’s finished playgroup. For a girl of thirty, she should be doing normal things – vandalism, fighting, shrieking, you understand the drill. I will write to Aunt Vom in Worthing nick – she is the fiesty one and will know how to advise. She sorts out a lot of her problems with something called Chinese throwing stars and Colt.45’s, and swears by them. Perhaps she can put one in the post. I do miss her so, the village hasn’t been the same without the odd disappearance or public disturbance over the price of a stamp.

It’s a pity about the mix-up with the cozzers, she’s so unlucky – it’s the eighth time now. Well, no doubt it well get sorted out, they’ll find she was pushed to her actions, and the MP’s flat bugle will….puff out and…possibly resemble a nose once more. He shouldn’t have put in that £3,487 claim for a platypus sanctuary that doesn’t exist, anyway. Bleeder.

Toodle pip, for now, and keep a look out for the Post-modernists – they’re trying to ban Sutton Hoo again on the grounds that it’s not modern enough.

Met Aunt Bench In Town – This Was The Conversation

Ah, can you stop for a minute?
Well, I don’t want to hold you up, but –
I’ve been talking to a man – you know the one,
called Bert
his wife,
Eileen – VERRRY ugly,
is eighty seven and has a wooden buttock. You’ve seen it.
Marvellous for her age.
Oldest woman in Trebollocks with a Glider’s License.
And her son has a glass eye.
Well you know I told you about their eldest son, Bunstable –
well his new French wife, Sardine –
She’s French.
And she knows an incredible amount of things about Trout.
She did a day course at Bibury Fish Farm,
where she got an honours in Fish Fondling. She’s sought after, by the police.
But unemployed cos it’s not the sort of thing you admit to, you know?
Well, I’ve got a leaftlet on it, if you want.
Anyway, I’ll push off, got some pickled onions on the go and the cat needs a replacement head flange.