The Good Ship Venus

Two workmen came to fit Chubb locks and other security devices to my door this morning. I gave them each a huge mug of steaming milky coffee. As they worked they sang The Good Ship Venus. Why? Were they trying to shock me? They needn’t have bothered as Doug has taught me all the words. And besides, I am just about old enough to be familiar with The Sex Pistols Friggin’ On the Rigging. I was relieved when they left. I locked myself in securely. Andy won’t be obliged to run into my swordstick or mallet.

‘Oh, Officer, I was practising sword-fighting when my neighbour walked around the corner, straight into the tip of the sword and was tragically and instantly disembowelled.’ Not terribly convincing, I admit. Thoughts of revenge are still haunting me, much as I try to suppress them. I could photocopy pages of my diary and distribute them amongst his disciples. I know things about Andy’s ‘friends’ that I never could have known unless their Messiah himself had told me.

A little lesson for you, Andy, never trust a diarist. She’ll always betray you.

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