Emigré

Dear Diary,

Who loves you? Well, an old flame got back in touch last night. She was drunk, her other half was out with the lads, and she confessed she loves me very much. She asked me, «et toi» to which I replied «je même» which, for those of you who didn’t already know means “I love you” effectively, in French. (Literally: I feel the same way). I miss her, but like so many burds, especially French ones, to her monogamy is a type of wood. She is quiet, unassuming, highly sexed, again, a typical trait of the French woman.

I needed to take regular breaks from the Latin. So I’ve been playing some guitar in between spates of learning vocabulary and working my way through the exercises at a snails pace.

This morning I gave the Council a letter explaining in no uncertain terms that you cannot take something from nothing, and if they repossess my house, I have put a contingency plan in place to emigrate. I am serious. No doubt a hundred souls will be glad to see me out of Britain, and if even one is pleased to see me across the Channel, I am content. Figuring out how to get across the sea with little Ronnie Barker is going to be a challenge, but I’m game. I’ve had it with this place. No gigs. No burds. No opportunities.

I am looking forward to a breath of fresh air, a new adventure, and some gigs are surely better than no gigs at all. Aye. I am going where the people love musicians, where not a word of English is spoken, and where the wine is cheaper, the food more fulfilling and the women are easier. Froggieland.