My little stinker.

Dear Diary,

Today has been slow. I’ve just taken Ronulus out, he really needed it. Despite accompanying me round the shops or to friends places, little Ron’ has shat inside twice in as many days. He’s curled one out more than once, he’s the gift that keeps on giving. That’s my little stinker, my lil’ poo-pooh, my little stinky-winky. Seeing as how Ronulus is actually house-trained, these ‘presents’ he keeps leaving me are an indication of how much I stay at home and study. On the day of the deadline and the following day I was more or less chained to the keyboard, writing against the clock. Even if I let him out in the back-yard, he still tries to do his business in the neighbours’ gardens. He’s looking at me all innocent now, wagging his tail, eating his Barker’s complete. I love you stinker, but we’re gonna have to have bathies soon.

Back on with the Latin I suppose.

I have buried my head in the sand about accumulating a Council Tax bill. It is not fair that I should have to part with a slice of the ten pounds I earn each week at the café. I am so hungry at times that I cannot face giving up even a penny that could otherwise be spent on bread or oats. Drink? Smoke? Forget it! Just a morsel of bread and some rainwater is all I ask, and am denied even that simple ‘luxury’.

I remember watching a documentary about the treatment of the Jews in France during W.W.II and remembering a quote about one poor Jewish soul trapped in such a harsh place. He said, “In the morning you would queue, to get your bread.” They ate one time a day only. I recall being hungry and yearning to be that Jew in a concentration camp: he at least had one crust of bread, which is more than none.