The clocks have gone back another hour, it’s getting darker, and wetter, and colder by the layer, and porridge is back on the menu.

This unfortunately also means that if you work night shits, you won’t get to see daylight again for a very long time.

I already have burns on my hands from a hot casserole dish full of Irish stew. And for some reason, I subconsciously stocked up on light bulbs. You never know…

Drinking port from an old jam jar in front of the radiating, homely warmth of a fan oven. A time for quiet contemplation and eating so much meat that you have a big hairy black shit in the garden, amongst the foxes and wolves.

Halloween night was spent hiding in my front room with all the lights off whilst children dressed as Satan and death rung the door bell and tried to nick my BMX all night.

That fucking door bell with its novelty tune that you can’t bloody change. Very funny, I already pay you silly rent every month, why do I have to put up with this ding-a-ling, piddley-pong, around we go, WAHEY! bollocks every time some total stranger comes round at eight in the morning to stand on a stool and use the light from his mobile phone to illuminate the electricity meter in the hall way, while I stand there in my dressing gown with hair like a ginger Don King staring at them until they leave. Fuck sake!

And I have just discovered that over the past summer, my lovely, sensible cardigans have been a nourishing feast for a host of moths, and now look like I stole them from a tramp. Screw the moths, I’m wearing them anyway. I even filled my wardrobe and drawers (no, not my pants) with moth balls. It seems all this did was make my room smell like petrol and make my clothes smell like museum exhibits. If anyone knows a clothes moth execution method that actually works, please let me in on it, I’m running low on air rifle pellets.

Beware of dog shit hidden under the dead leaves.
Big hairy black ones.
HJ