Dear Diary…

Dear Diary,


Today has been a really strange day so far. The walls are melting, the ceiling is singing to me and my coffee mug has refused to let me near it. It said that it had a court injunction forbidding me to put my lips within twenty feet of it, so I have had to fashion a super-straw out of ninety smaller straws in order to drink my morning cappuccino – and cappuccino through a straw isn’t the same, let me tell you that for nothing – you don’t appreciate the chocolate topping as much if you cut straight to the liquid. Plus, you can’t blow on it, causing the froth the part in the most delightful way, like sheep cutting through clouds, cooling the liquid to drinkable temperature. I’m sure I now have a slight blister on my tongue, although it could just be a bit of old chewing gum.


I’ve just had a fight with my ceiling – it won’t stop singing. It seems that it doesn’t know anything other than ‘Ruby Tuesday’ by The Rolling Stones. Once you’ve heard it five times, it begins to grate. You know, it doesn’t matter how great the song is – I used to love it before – repetition can ruin even the most wonderful song… and my ceiling doesn’t even have the best voice. It keeps on getting the lyrics wrong as well, which is infuriating. It sings, “Still I’m going to kiss you” instead of “Still I’m going to miss you”. It’s really annoying me. I’ve told it that it must stop or there will be consequences.


It’s still singing.  It’s still fucking singing.  I can’t take much more of this.


OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod, I’ve just killed my ceiling. What am I going to do? Oh bumhairs!  I got my kitchen knife and stabbed it repeatedly… there were white flakes of paint raining down on me… chunks of plaster… I’m sure I have it in my long greying hair, my eyebrows… the ceiling’s DNA will be all over me – I’m going down for this… shit, I’m going to be locked up for the rest of my unnatural life! Well, sod that for a game of soldiers!  They’re not going to get me… I’m not going inside to be some massive guy’s bitch and to be rear-ended by all and sundry! I’m too pretty for jail!  I’m going on the run!


Mustn’t panic.  Speed is of the essence. I have to get out of here before they discover my ceiling’s body. Well, I’m ready – I have my pet armadillo, my stuffed crocodile and a pair of chopsticks just in case things get ugly. I’m heading for Mexico – I have at least £17, so I should be able to live out the rest of my natural life in relative luxury. Thing is, will I appreciate it or will the blood-curdling dying screams of my ceiling haunt me forever? I’m sure a few plates of nachos and enchiladas will help me forget. Wish me luck…


It’s time to go.  Goodbye flat.  Goodbye teddy.  Goodbye old life!  God, I can still hear ‘Ruby Tuesday’ going through my head. Which way’s Mexico? How am I going to get there? I haven’t got any clothes on. I do like rice, though.  And Pot Noodles, but I don’t think they will have any there.  Is Portsmouth near Mexico?  I’m confused.


I’m tired.  I’m going back to bed.

About A.D.S.

You are reading the musings of a music-obsessed forty-something who was brought up on The Beatles, lived through Britpop and now spends his time in pursuit of the best music around. This 'blog gives me an outlet to write about the huge number of albums I buy and the many gigs I go to. All of the opinions expressed are my own and if you don't agree with me, then I understand - music is a very personal thing. I like to receive comments, especially if they're nice ones.
This entry was posted in Humour and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Dear Diary…

  1. Clare says:

    Haaaaahahahahahaha. Bumhairs.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s