The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº5

Jack popped round this afternoon for a quickie. He often does on a Thursday. When his missus has gone shopping and the British Legion Club shuts. Very predictable is Jack. Though there's nothing very quick about him these days.

He's a lot slower than what he used to be. It takes him half an hour to get it up - his body up the stairs, that is. We could do it somewhere else, I suppose. But I'm paranoid about him dropping dead in flagranti delicto on the dining room table. At the end of the day if the worse came to the worse, it seems a bit more appropriate popping your clogs in a bed even if it is someone else’s.

And for the rest of it, well, between me, you and the gatepost, I think he's lost it. It wasn't worth the bother today. He twiddled and twiddled that much, I had to tell him to stop.

“Get off, Jack,” I said and gave him a shove. “I'm not a bloody radio and I don't need tuning in.”

It was hard to tell if he was searching for my clitoris or looking for Radio Two. Then he fell asleep half-way through. Well it might have been half-way through if he'd have got started. Wasn't that romantic? Watching him snore and drool a fish pond of frothy spit onto my best SC monogrammed pillow slip. There wasn't much else to do apart from get out my knitting and do a few rows of knit two pearl two instead.

By the time he woke up, I'd gone off the boil and wasn't very happy.

“Go home to your bloody missus, Jack.” I told him.

“What's up with you today, Mary?” He asked me. “You got a dose of PMT?” The cheeky git.

“That'll be the day.” I said. “It's time you took up a new hobby. Something like do-it-your self because I'm not in the mood any longer.”

“Please yourself.” He told me, while he was tucking his shirt in his trousers. “I'll go out on the pull tonight. There's a ladies dart match at the Dragon and Dove.”

Good job I had my Tena Lady on, I nearly wet myself laughing.

“Piss off you silly old fart.” I told him. “You couldn't even pull a muscle if you were doing the gardening.” Who does he think he is.

It was the same when he went through his mid-life crisis. Mind you, that was a good few years back. He came round one afternoon, out of the blue as he's always had a tendency to do, when I was spring-cleaning the bedroom.

“Mary, I think I'm gay,” he said. I never laughed so hard in all my life. That's a nice thought. I could do that then. Laugh, I mean, without pissing my knickers.

“Fuck off, Jack. You're too bloody miserable to be gay.” I told him. “Anyway, only a woman would put up with you. No man'd be daft enough to have you.”

A good shag soon put him straight. These days even his memory's not what it used to be and on occasion, he even forgets what he comes round for. Once upon a time, he wouldn't go home without some serious fore-play, a good old roll in the hay and a nice long bit of the missionary position. Now, on a bad day, he's satisfied with a cheese sandwich and a slice of fruit cake. Just goes to show how age changes you.

Still, I had time to read the paper after he'd gone. That peeved me as well. I'm going to ask for a discount on the price ot it tomorrow. Half of today's was a football supplement. I hate football. It's a load of crap. That's just given me an idea.

I'm going to use it to line the bottom of the budgie cage. I'll shout gooooo-aal! every time the droppings land on that Drogba's head. It'll teach him a lesson. Fancy having his photo taken with his hands down his shorts in the middle of a match. Disgusting. Should be ashamed. Playing with himself in the middle of the pitch during a game and all them people watching. Anyway, I always thought football was a team game. It's a wonder the rest of them didn't join in.