This is entirely fiction. Completely. Utterly. Except for any true bits

August 6th: 06.21am. Wake up in spare bed, having realised two things overnight, viz (1) we need a new spare bed and (2) I will never again be able to straighten my spine.

07.40am. Encounter neighbour while out walking Spiro Agnew in the hope that early exercise will free up my spasming muscles. When Ronald sees me, he queries if I have ‘succumbed to all that yoga nonsense’. When I assure him I have not he wonders why I look ‘like a human pretzel’. While we are talking Spiro Agnew evacuates his bowels next to Rodney’s slippers. Decide it prudent to withdraw swiftly as Rodney is waging a war on the dog owner who’s mutt has been defecating outside his house for months and I am without appropriate faecal capture paraphernalia viz a doggie bag.

08.32am. First Of Her Name is prepared to forgot any faux pas from yesterday and offers me the chance of redemption. Indeed, she has developed an understanding and charitable streak as she tells me I need ‘to go to the pub’.

10.41am. In pub. First Of her Name does not have an understanding and charitable streak. I am charged with securing ‘their finest accommodation’ for certain guests viz her sister. While if questioned, First Of her Name will describe her relationship with her sister as ‘close’ this does not include physical proximity. Consequently they will need to be housed nearby but with at least two courses of bricks between each sibling. Hence the suggestion of the pub.

11.23am. Am pleading with Barry, the publican to let me have all seven of their rooms, even though they are already booked. First Of Her Name has made it clear that, if I fail in my appointed task ‘given that you have sent enough money there to have shares in the place’ I will need to consider alternative methods of urinating.

11.41am. Barry admits the rooms have been booked by Rodney who will be hosting a war-gaming extravaganza in his garage that weekend.

2.12pm. Having waited by the gate, pretending to degrease my wisteria, apprehend Rodney on his way to the off licence. Confide to him that I spotted Barry’s Rottweiler-Cerberus cross, Bruiser, depositing the latest turdiferous instalment on the pavement. Agree that Barry is a swine and certainly not a gentleman. Suggest we should boycott the pub in protest.

3.41pm. Deliver the news to Barry that Rodney has decided to cancel booking. Agree with assessment of Rodney’s untrustworthiness viz he is a mite too fickle (or in Barry’s vernacular ‘slippery little shite’). Confirm we are happy to fill Barry’s now empty order book.

4.17pm. Am confronted by apoplectic First Of Her Name. Once mouth frothing and teeth gnashing subsides to allow for coherent explanation, find that First Of Her Name has discovered Spiro Agnew’s morning offering as she returned from a trip to the bridal wear boutique by the simple expedient of stepping into same.  Have begun to sympathise when she interrupts. ‘I told Rodney it wasn’t good enough’. Further probing reveals that First Of Her Name suggested that, since the offending evacuation was on the pavement outside Rodney’s house, it was his responsibility to clean it up.

4.18pm. I gently suggest that First Of Her Name is being a touch harsh as he does not have own a dog. That appears to have been Rodney’s take. First Of Her Name then surprises me ‘But Rodney and I, we’re good.’ I want to ask how that can be so, but somehow know this will not generate a desirable answer.

7.10pm. At pub. Rodney revealed Barry’s pooch as the crapulous culprit to First Of Her Name. I am dispatched to cancel the booking. When I arrive, Rodney is in a full and frank discussion over the general decline in civic pride with Barry viz, why he doesn’t clean up after his sodding dog. Barry expresses a degree of surprise at his suggestion viz: ‘wtf are you saying?’ at which point Rodney points to me as the purveyor of eye-witness evidence.

7.27pm. Outside pub with the following having been resolved: (1) we will not be using the pub to house family members; (2) Rodney has restored his previously cancelled booking; and (3) I am discouraged from frequenting the pub for the foreseeable if I want to be able to urinate standing up; wonder if Barry and First Or Her Name attend same book group.

8.34pm. First Of Her Name pleased that booking has been cancelled so easily and delighted when I confide I have decided to cut down on trips to the pub ‘to save money’. Bed privileges are restored.

11.01pm. Wait outside Rodney’s for one hour seventeen minutes until, finally Spiro Agnew delivers. Think, perhaps that is enough of a protest for tonight.