When I woke up on the hard bedroom floor this morning John was nowhere to be seen. The bed covers were strewn on the floor, the door was open and his chair gone. The hallway, which is normally still a grey place at that time, was flooded in bright sunlight. Voices and floral scents were drifting in from outside as if the windows were up. I jumped into my crumpled beige slacks, chucked a tightish, pinkish t-shirt on and went to see what the SP was.

“Oh, awww, John! hee hee. Yeah, he did seem like a bitofa cock, he he!”
It was the unmistakeable high-pitched squeal of the postboy, and if I wasn't mistaken he was talking about me. I stood for a second just listening and peeping out at the two of them – John in his chair and the postboy leaning over the gate with the bulge of his sex pushing in between the wrought iron bars. Then I saw John put his finger to his lips and nudge his head backwards. The postboy peered over John's shoulder and into the hallway. Trying to think he looked even more stupid than usual. I leant back and out of sight. In the quiet I heard the whooosh as the toilet cistern refilled and decided to use that as my cue.

“So who's been using the toilet? It couldn't have been you John, unless Brian there carried you out the chair and planted you on the throne. Oh, hiya Brian!” I smiled. He gave a limp wave back.
“Er, no, yea... it was Brian,” John stammered “he needed the loo.” I looked at the postboy who looked all flustered and caught off guard. “Aww yeah, was Me. Guilty as charged, yer 'onor. Badly needed a piddle, hee,” he said giving his crotch a gentle squeeze like little boys do. John sunk forward in his chair and adjusted his glasses. “Hmm, OK!” I nodded “Oh, and John... well done for making it out of bed all by yourself. From tomorrow you've regained that little bit of independence!” With that I turned on my heel and headed for the kitchen thinking of blueberry marmelade on brown toast, two things I knew we didn't have.

*      *     *      *

This afternoon John and I go to my mothers for the anniversary of my fathers departure. Why we are celebrating his fifth year amongst the flames downstairs, I don't know. I just hope everything goes smoothly and the brandy shots don't lead to my uncles calling me “a snide little queer” or a “grave digger.” Last year one of them chucked an old shoe at me. The heel hit me full whelly in the ear. Everyone just rocked back in laughter as blood trickled down my neck. I love this world, but in many ways it makes me very, very sad.


  1. Poor Tristram.. seems like that Johns has you all paranoid now, and is being a right twat :0 xx

  2. What one has to put up for love!
    Your uncles are not cool...at all.
    Hang on in there?


  3. @ Wildernesschic: Yeah he has, but that's my problem not his. As for being twat, you said it! X

    @ Dogboy: It's a hard game and never rewarding. My uncles, no, not cool at all. Thick moustaches and tight white t-shirts are so out! When will they learn??? X

  4. Wildernessshit: Fuck YOU! Just Fuck you!!! I'm a twat? The readers of MY blog don't think so! Yeah, I too have a blog, but it's only open to invited readers and you'll never be one! But maybe one day it will be made public, who knows???

    Frrrrpppp!!! <---- that's a fart!


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