Dear Clare & Paul
How many times have I sat before this monitor with the intention to type! Each time I do some fatal distraction occurs, such as a “plop plop” or a “wee wee”. Some nights I just stare at the glowing screen, and wonder who I am. I thought I was Maisey yesterday and proceeded to find Charlie for a picnic. Some of my best friends are TV stars of the 7-8am slot. My adult friends don’t come around anymore, and when they do I’m far too tired to go out at 7pm. I have a large belly just like the Telly Tubbies, and I sleep in the other room on the floor (it’s called a Futon – rock hard).
I used to jet around the world and refuse champagne at 30,000 feet; I was somebody. Now I must contemplate the challenge of the dole office, and cheap beer. Oh how I wept. The contract market died over 10 months ago along with my dreams of escape, and starched white hotel sheets, not to mention room service. Still enough of me, what of you?
So your insane, and you’ve had another child to prove it. According to last nights news you won’t need to save for a pension due to a mile wide asteroid on a collision course with Earth. This is good news as you can now use the pension contributions to travel the world before it’s toasted. Apologies for not visiting you at Christmas and any other time, but the months seem like weeks when your deprived of sleep for so long, so very long. I think I’m going mad, the child is screaming again.
I’m going to be pumped with drugs soon as we are going on “holiday” to France…with a child. Dear God strike me down now. My luggage is brief, and the childs comprises of Boot’s the chemists on wheels. I hope somebody recognises my good looks and I’m whisked away to Studio land to play the victim – I’ll get to lie down more. Thinking of you, thinking of me, thinking of you…