Urdu

Staring at Jonny through his kitchen window is a worrying sight.

He is wearing only his pants.

He is watching the cricket.

He is chortling at the intense physical pain another human being is experiencing after being struck in the testicles with a very hard ball.

He is tuned to the Urdu channel.

I am acutely disturbed by the pants. The pants are, in themselves, disturbing. But, sporting as they are one Jonny Billericay, they are doubly so.

I am disturbed that he seems to be enjoying cricket. Surely only half-crazed lunatics actually enjoy cricket.

The fact he is taking pleasure in the torture of a fellow human should not come as a surprise. Yet disturbed I remain.

But most of all, I am disturbed by the apparent ease with which he is understanding the commentary. I had previously thought that Jonny had been radicalised after a Western upbringing. Now I may have to reassess this view - perhaps he was born and raised in the developing world, and has since contracted some kind of weird skin pigmentation disease, like Michael Jackson.

Quid Pro Quo

From the chatter that we have to wade through on a daily basis, I get wind of a possible attack. Maybe I'm feeling paranoid today, but my gut tells me that Jonny B is going to be involved.

I think back to anti-terrorism 101, the heart of which seemed to be:

1) Don't shoot anyone unless you are really, really sure they are almost definately a terrorist.
2) If you have to shoot someone, try and do it in a third-world country, as you can get away with practically anything there.
3) Don't let the target get near a large crowd.

So I make a pre-emptive strike, and get the agency to arrange a little "accident" for Jonny's car.

A little while later, I'm coming back from the shops when I'm rear-ended by a white van. Coincidence? Or retribution?

Middle Ages

An air of depression hangs over our houses.

My 40th birthday has come and gone. Being forty is no fun at all. It's bad enough in the months leading up to being forty. It occupies your thoughts, clouds your judgements, pops into your head as you're trying to be charming to sales assistants. But the time after being 40 is the worst. You realise that life hasn't come to an end, that you have more of the same old shit to deal with, that with every day that goes by you're just another step closer to 50. Half a century.

Jonny has kept a low profile for a spell. The LTLP has been ordering him around - she at least has bounced back well from her near-death experience. Some months have passed since the bodged attempt on her life. Jonny has been unwell. Whether he has been simply feigning sickness, or whether he has actually been ill, I do not know.

Tonight I found him in his bathroom covered in his own puke. He was half-crazed on mesc or crack or whatever it is the cool kids are taking these days. Was this an attempt on his own life? Again, I neither know nor care. I stood over him, one part of me in disgust at what has become of him. But there was another part, a not insignificant part, that just wanted to lay down next to him, close my eyes, and swallow the bottle of pills that were on the sink.

I am at a low.

I strip Jonny naked and hose him down in the shower. Then I pull him into the bedroom and lift him onto the bed. I think he might just get through this one.

Me?

I'm not so sure.