Dear Diary,

This is how one begins an entry, isn’t it? It has been so many years… Well, bollocks, I say. I am not a 16-year-old girl with boy trouble. I will, therefore, rename you. If I have to fit all my unholy thoughts and desires and the like into you, I will need more than a mere diary.

Let’s start over.

Dear Duffle Bag, (I have no idea what the date is)

So here we are. I can’t imagine why my granddaughter thought you’d be a great gift. But perhaps you and I will grow fond of each other.

So, you’d like to know about my day? As usual, Farting Thomas had me up and out of bed before sunrise for his pre-morning ablutions. Then I got kitted out and went for a run. On my way home, I stopped at that lovely little vegan place just off Belladonna Ave and ordered the largest, greenest smoothie available. The smoothie and I went off to the park, where I spent a glorious hour in silent meditation, you know, to get in touch with my inner goddess.

Oh, absolute poppycock, of course. The truth is that Thomas pissed on my kitchen floor because his whining failed to rouse me. I even slept through my alarm, which is set for 9 am every morning. It is sinful to get up willingly before then. I was dead to the world. Yes, hungover, feeling rougher than a badger’s backside.

The young librarian Gary came round last night to have a chat about our upcoming ‘event’. And he brought along a lovely chap named Johnnie Walker. Bless their hearts! And damned be those last few shots we had before I booted Gary out of the door and watched him stagger home all the way to the house right opposite mine.

The funny thing is, I can’t remember if we did, in fact, talk about the event at all. I don’t remember taking the vinyls off the shelf, either. There were a few missed calls on my mobile this morning. From Doris, my left-side neighbour, no less. Now, if Doris phones with a noise complaint (which I assume was the reason as we hardly ever talk on the phone at 3 am), I know that Gary and I must have been having a ball of sorts.

But that was all last night, or possibly still this morning. Most of the rest of today passed in a haze of headache tablets and queasiness; very similar to how I feel when the vicar brings along his wife on one of his visits.

Duffle, my dear, thank you for listening. I am tired and want to go to bed. I am sure to write some exciting entries soon.

Ada

I nearly forgot: I’ve been invited to Sunday lunch with Gary and his husband, George. Someone else’s cooking for a change!

Gary and George are such a lovely couple, but their names sound a bit strange when you say them together, wouldn’t you agree? Gary and George, George and Gary. How do they sign their Christmas cards?

Ours was simple: Jack and Ada. Always.

Oh, goodnight then!