The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº6

I had a swap of newspapers today and bought the Sun for a change. It was, to be honest, very enlightening There was an article on page twenty-six by Richard Bacon on a new TV program called Hidden Talent. It said they'd discovered loads of people who could do all sorts of amazing things like speak Arabic, climb mountains and tell at a glance when someone's lying. That's nothing unusual, I thought. I do it everyday when Maisie's telling me another one of her stories. Apparently there still looking for more people and I'm thinking of applying for the auditions because I've got a very special talent – for taking the piss.

There was a lot to read in Wednesday's edition of The Sun newspaper. It took me the best part of the morning, ten cups of tea plus two ham sandwiches and I'd still only got as far as the middle pages. That was a spread and a half. The real Essex is a dirty underworld of violence, cheating, drugs and money, the title said. Just like Park Crescent, I thought. Only, as we're all over seventy, we take a bit longer going about it.

Simon was in there too. Never you mind about the BAFTA's love, you come round mine and I'll give you an award all of your own. A very special (sexual) one. My granddaughter says if things are in brackets no-one can see them. Hope she's right, otherwise, I'll be blushing. Thinking on, I need to look for another nice picture of him to replace the one above the bed. The paper's got a hole in it now - right where his lips should've been. (I love snogging. Particularly Simon Cowell at half past seven in the morning. Then again, I always was a frisky cow.)

Old Arthur went past about half past ten. I was feeling charitable this morning and so I opened the kitchen window and shouted good morning to him. Silly old twat took his hand of his zimmerframe and fell flat on his back. I had to go out and help him get up.

“Thanks, Mary,” he said. “That's knocked the wind out of me. I think I'll go home for a rest.”

He could do with a bit of speed.The rate he goes at, he'll get there – sometime around about next week. Mind you, he'll struggle to get to the corner and find a dealer.

Wasn't that disgusting about that care worker Aquino? I was reading all the letters folks had sent in and quite agreed with them. Though if I'd have been in charge, I might have taken things a step or two further. I'd put him in a wrestling ring with Batista.

Yes, that man with the chest from Pressing Catch and possibly Simon C's only competition for my veteran affections. I have to have a chest to fantasize about. Mostly because Jack's has sort of slipped down and settled around his waistline.

Talking of waistlines. Batista's tattooed belly-button really gets my hormones flowing. He's a man after my own heart and knows what to do with his lunch-box. There's certain ways of packing them and he really has got the knack.

A few rounds with the hunks from Pressing Catch would show that Aquino what a slap was. After Batista, I'd make him do a few more rounds with the Undertaker. Then peel him off the floor, pack him in a box and post him back to the Philippines second class.