The Demise of Roland Ratso: Chapter forty two

Eleanor is in trouble at school and has been denied access to the computer and she “can’t remember exactly why she is in trouble” Her sense of humour is rapidly developing and following the family trait. God help any lad who latches on to her! She came home from school the other day and announced that she was pregnant with Aidan’s baby! Antony nearly had a fit as he always says he will be going to jail if that ever happens! Dinner went down well – Jonathan is moaning that I have dirtied every pan in the house as he is going to do the washing up. No doubt there will be another sarky comment but what Jonathan actually does is load the dishwasher. Well done! I made three coloured blacmange – raspberry, vanilla and chocolate but the chocolate was a bit runny and Irene wouldn’t let me turn them out. No sense of adventure. I couldn’t eat all of my dinner – I felt sick halfway through it which is unusual seeing as I managed a bacon sandwich for breakfast with no ill effects. There’s always the little niggles from chemo to keep you on your toes. Can anyone say “bacon” without sounding Jamaican? (Beercan!) Get it? – maybe not. Just for a little update on the bowel situation – I have knocked off my beloved porridge and haven’t had a poo for two days except for a couple of little rabbit droppings. I better let Severn Trent water know as they will probably have to open a sluice or two when I do finally evacuate. The derriere is also supreme but there is still the niggle that the pain will return. I make a mental note that I am going to shovel the soothing cream up my arse when I start my next radiotherapy slice and I don’t care if the radiologists see the understains. I can’t go through that again and neither should anyone else. Take it as a timely warning. I did four weeks of radio and in the final week my clacker turned into an instrument of torture. Don’t try and be brave. Just don’t let it happen in the first place. I am also farting like a trooper – real cheek ripplers and it doesn’t feel like the Russian Roulette of days of yore. Famous last words! Went out on Sunday night – there was a double bill – a boy and girl singer doing independent spots. Picko was buying bingo tickets when I got to the club and he’s got the nerve to question MY sexuality. At least I don’t play bingo. Women’s work! But mainly because I nearly got killed playing it! Many years ago I was in a club in Leicester after a meeting and my mate was a member and was playing bingo in the bar on Sunday dinner. He told me that he was going to the toilet – would I mark his card. I shouted for the full house while he was away and a delegation of angry women gathered round poking me in the chest and telling me I was not a member and the money wasn’t mine. Phew! I think I would have rather faced a mob of Afghan insurgents than those women,