No pets are allowed in the Butchelor Pad which is just as well because the old Black Dog slipped in a couple of weeks ago and I’ve had just about enough of him. Or should I really be calling him her?
When I’ve not been distracted by the day job, I have had to resort to watching her digging up graves, eating old bones from skeletons in the closet and constantly slipping the lead to tear off down memory lane.
When I do get her back on the lead, she will be taken to the vets with her tail between her legs and put down.
To cap it all off my right wrist and fist now regularly keep locking up due to years of pounding keyboards. It is very painful while typing – hence the late blog.
If I can’t write, I can’t earn and I daren’t contemplate what that might mean.
So I have locked my front door, turned off my mobile, taken the home phone off the hook and shut myself away for the week.
Socially speaking, Facebook has locked me out of my account several times this week too. It doesn’t believe who I am and has been unable to verify my identity.
I have some sympathy with that because there’s plenty of times these days that I don’t know who I am either.
I have binge-watched old comedies like Blackadder looking for laughs, and as Edmund might say, ‘I’m in the stickiest situation, Baldrick, since Sticky the Stick Insect got stuck on a sticky bun.’
Last weekend I met someone new in a nightclub and it became very serious, very suddenly. There was very little required in that getting to know you phase.
We got on like a house on fire – not that a burning building should ever be a benchmark for a healthy relationship, although god knows I’ve had more than my fair share of infernos.
While I have my reservations, she made it plain to me that she is very serious and I must say, just the short time I spent in her company managed to penetrate any gloom I may have about financial and foreign affairs.
It only hit me the morning after when I woke up and remembered our wonderful meeting and her dazzling smile.
I lay there alone in my cold little room, yawned, rubbed my eyes and everything in the world suddenly seemed right and brand new again.
I heard the distant sound of church bells (could they be wedding?) and jumped out of bed with a new spring in my step to throw open the curtains.
For once, the sun had got his hat on and had indeed come out to play as March arrived, which means winter is now giving way to spring.
All the daffodils seemed to have bloomed overnight and I spotted a couple of bees buzzing from one flower to the other.
I could even make out a little wiggly worm passing the time of day with my old friend Mister Magpie like they were the best of buddies.
And a little voice inside me spoke up and said: ‘Butcher – you’ve been dreaming.’
And I had been. A dream lover, you might say.
It was all a bloody dream, Baldrick, but better than the nightmare of waking up to the Today programme.
Worryingly, it appears Joe Biden too must have been sleepwalking through his State of the Union address.
As Vladimir continues ‘Putin on the Blitz,’ the world’s most powerless man told us that Russian forces had been met by a ‘mall of strength’ in Ukraine, before correcting himself to ‘wall’.
And I gather that no mightier political powerhouse than Maggie-wannabe Liz Truss has marched off to the Baltic States to provide reassurance.
That will no doubt mean cheesy photo-opportunities of pointing at tanks, wearing fur coats and having her staffers write strident pledges into the Twittersphere.
It’s about as reassuring as turning up at Hurricane Katrina with a mop and bucket.
Then in a radio discussion about the cost of living crisis, another interviewee told us that many people out there ‘don’t have enough money to eat’.
Snacking on £10 pound notes has never really struck me as a sensible hors’ d’oeuvres, but you’ll have to excuse my cynicism as I am in a mood for splitting hairs.
I have been on a new fasting diet which involves not being bothered to cook anything for 16 hours of the day. Hungry like the wolf, you could say.
The big sister lovingly left my tea on my doorstep the other night as I try to shake myself out of a new malaise.
In a supermarket cafe this week, trying to get a hot meal inside me, I had the temerity to politely interrupt one of the table cleaners to ask where the condiments were.
Not saying a word, she sloped off, dragging her feet all the way. The next thing I was aware of was four packets of sugar crash-landing on my saucer.
Shane Warne (52 and out) would have been proud of her accuracy. I’ve heard of throwing salt over your left shoulder to avoid bad luck, but I wonder what sugar being thrown at you over it might mean?
I think the old trout needs sweetening up but perhaps she was having the sort of week I was.
Still, the children will be here to stay again in a fortnight’s time, and until then I will endeavour to keep the Black Dog firmly in the dog house.
Land Down Under by Men at Work (1980).