Kids say the funniest things.

Like: “Help! Help! Let me out of the cupboard!”

My brief daydream respite is shattered by Pootles and Tootles. “Jonny! Jonny! Read us another story!”

I sigh in defeat as LTLP and Friend snigger on the sofa. Again, there is no way out. Deep breath, storytelling voice.

“Call me Ishmael…” I begin.

There are frowns, and a book is thrust at me. Clearly I am not allowed a story of my choosing. And yes – here it is again – would you believe it – Mr. Fucking Cocksucking Nonsense.

(Note to Roger Hargreaves’s lawyers – I added the swear words above for effect, it is not an actual book that has been produced without Mr Hargreaves’s knowledge. Although if he is interested in following up the idea I would be happy to discuss licensing it).

“Fifteen minutes.” I say firmly, drawing from an undreamt-of well of resolve. “I’ll read you a story in fifteen minutes.”

I grab my mug of tea and scarper off upstairs to snatch some quiet contemplation.

Ten minutes later, and they crash through the door of my private retreat.

“Jesus Christ!” I exclaim. “I don’t think…”

“Jonny! Jonny! Whatya doing?”

“Girls, I really think…”

They start playing with the hand towels.

“Are you doing a wee wee or a poo?” enquires Tootles.

“A poo,” I reply, desperate to end this interaction there and then. “Now…”

“Do you want to meet Mr. Monkey?”

Despair and desolation settle over me, as I slump helplessly on the seat, my pants round my ankles, waiting for Social Services to burst in and put an end to this nightmare for good. Mr. Monkey turns out to be a moth-eaten glove puppet.

“Mr. Monkey’ll give you the toilet paper,” she announced, as the thing wrestled, emu-like, with the bogroll.

Miserably, I accepted three sheets of toilet paper from Mr. Monkey. I’m sure I have been in less dignified situations. I can’t remember when.

To a town in the North, to stay with the LTLP’s ‘best-but-only-see-her-every-three-years’ friend.

I have my appendage’s hat firmly on, and have rehearsed my smalltalk. We park the car (I make sure to lock it as we are in the north) and go in.

Within about three nanoseconds, my role in the weekend becomes apparent. Friend has two little girls, aged about four, and I am clearly expected to keep them entertained whilst LTLP and Friend do adult conversation.

I gaze in horror as Pootles and Tootles sprint towards me to investigate. They’re still at that age when having a visitor (even a celebrity visitor like me) is a source of excitement and wonder rather than something that needlessly and rudely interrupts the Saturday newspapers.

I am very scared of kids. I am scared of their energy, and of the fact that they climb on you, and of the fact that they ask so many questions and won’t be fobbed off. Honestly. If they’d sacked the old fool and put two four-year-olds in charge of the Hutton Enquiry then Mr Campbell really wouldn’t have got off so lightly.

Being with four-year olds is like being sober when everybody else is drunk.

“Why don’t you ask Jonny to read you a story?” enquires the LTLP, sweetly.

I shoot her a WMD glance.

“Yayyy!!! Story!!! Read us a story!!!”

I am not entirely sure about the proffered book. I glance through it, frowning. “Are you sure you want me to read them this one?” I ask Friend. “The central character seems to have an entirely irresponsible attitude to life, and appears to exist solely on benefits.”

The children were insistent.

I read them ‘Mr Nonsense’.

I glanced at my watch.

Thirty minutes down. Only around twenty-two hours to go.

I realise that two posts a day probably goes against some form of blog rule, but this is not Jonny. This is the LTLP. Jonny may not be able to post anything tomorrow, or the day after. Apparently it can be difficult from UNDER THE PATIO.

Marriage is great. For starters, you know someone so well that you can guess their ridiculously easy passwords and post something on their blog.

The sherade is over Jonny. I know about the cleaner (for new readers see the past few days posts).

Of course in retrospect, like all deceptions, there were the tell tale signs. Like the fact that things had been cleaned properly, and in a reasonable time scale rather than the 12 hours it takes Jonny to vacumn one room.

The other thing about being married is that you try to take an interest in your other halfs life. That was of course my down fall. You see, normally I don’t have time to catch up on Jonny’s blogging activity. What with me having a NORMAL JOB and all that. In case this doesn’t apply to you or you can’t remember what one’s like, this usually equates to working 12 hours a day, half of which can’t be spent fucking about with virtual friends on the internet. But today I thought I would throw caution to the wind and log on.

I am considering my options for revenge. Apparently it can be very sweet.

The LTLP

A welcome to the sudden influx of police enthusiasts from here.

I was in London for the big demonstration on Wednesday, but unfortunately got my dates completely mixed up and got laughed out of Parliament Square dressed in my Batman costume.

No. That was a joke. I was there for business reasons. Honest.

I saw on Newsround that some protesters were having a go at so-called ‘Police Brutality’. Whilst I live in a rural area, I have to say that this is just typical of the way some countryside dwellers are completely out of touch with the needs and traditions of the Metropolitan Police.

The Metropolitan Police have been hitting people on the heads with truncheons for hundreds of years. It is not just a sport – it is a whole way of life.

In fact, it has been shown that the only really efficient way of keeping the number of protesters down is by hitting them on the head with truncheons. Other ways – laying traps, shooting them etc – are far crueler and lead to unnecessary suffering..

We saw on the news protesters cheerfully being interviewed with blood pouring down their faces. Proof, indeed, that the experience is not particularly traumatic – indeed, there is no evidence at all that protesters feel any pain or fear when being hit on the head with a truncheon.

By stopping the police hitting protesters on the head with truncheons, the ‘do-gooders’ will be condemning a whole economy to ruin. Thousands of people depend on this activity for their livelihood – bandage-makers, paramedics – lawyers, etc.

What’s more, if hitting people on the head with truncheons was banned, the police would immediately have to shoot all their police dogs. They wouldn’t enjoy doing that, but it would make a point so that would be all right.

This politically-correct nonsense must stop. I, for one, will be arranging some sort of Rik Mayall-like student direct action protest in order to change the world.

Memo – must think of something to actually DO once I break into the chamber, and perhaps bring along some people who the average man in the street might have some sympathy with.

continued from yesterday

A short precis for new readers: An act of subterfuge has led me to employ a cleaner whilst pretending I’m not employing a cleaner. As most people know, this is a dead-cert way to get a shag. However, I’ve locked myself out and all normal means of entry would involve exposure and ignominy and not getting a shag.

And here’s where I get my first stroke of luck.

The bathroom window is slightly ajar. I have forgotten my keys, but have left a downstairs window open. It is just as they say. If you lead a truthful, blameless life then the Gods will smile upon you.

“I can get through the window!!!”

She shoots me a withering glance.

“Stop messing about. Just come next door to Short Tony’s with me.”

By this time I am examining the window. Apart from a few tomato plants it is accessible enough. It is quite tall, and about the width of an amorous and slightly overweight blogger, but high enough off the ground to allow reasonable ‘head first’ access.

“It’s late and their kids will be in bed. Nothing for it. I’m going to try the window.”

“It’s only just gone… for fuck’s sake!”

I have wriggled through the window. At least – I have half wriggled through the window. My front half is there, my back half definitely is not. I do not know it, but my belt is caught on the window fastening.

Some sort of poky thing is pressing into my stomach, making it difficult to breathe properly. Beneath me is the bath, still slightly damp from earlier, and a large fake olde-worlde painful-looking-to-land-on tap/shower combo.

My legs thrash about helplessly.

“What the FUCK are you doing?” I hear.

I feel my ankles being grabbed, and then something is tugging at my shoes. This pulls me back and forth across the fastening, painfully. I cry out, and knock over some shampoo.

“If you’re going to fuck around doing that then you can at least take your shoes off,” comes the explanation. I feel them wrenched off my feet and then – crash! – I am face down in the bath.

A face appears at the window.

“You really are a cretin,” she says.

“Now unlock the door. I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

No shag.

*

That was last Thursday. Since then, the secret cleaner has remained secret.

JONNY’S FINAL THOUGHT

You know – maybe it’s time to reflect on the nature of white lies and how they get out of hand.

Sometimes you tell a little tiny jokey sort of lie of no consequence at all. (Random example: ‘it was me who cleaned the kitchen, not a professional cleaner’.) And you think that you’ll be found out straight away, or own up later on, and you’ll both laugh yourself silly about it.

And that doesn’t happen for whatever reason, and you idly wonder for how long you can keep it going. And then you absent-mindedly tell a few more lies to support your story, and other people find out, and you laugh about it with virtual internet people who do not exist in the real world. And suddenly, it’s perhaps more of a bigger deception than you initially planned.

But there’s one thing that can’t be avoided – sooner or later you have to come out with the truth. It might be difficult. It might be unpleasant. But if you truly love one another, then there’s no other option to take.

Jonny will return on Friday.

Until then… take care of yourselves – and each other.

Continued from yesterday

Thursday evening.

I have supposedly spent ages cleaning the house, taken the LTLP out for a nice meal and melted her with my new man-ness.

Picture us. Back at the cottage, locking the car, the first nip of a new autumn as we crunch up the gravel drive in the crisp darkness.

And the sudden realisation that I don’t have my front door keys.

Several pats of the pockets later and they are still most definitely not there.

“What’s the problem?” offers the LTLP. “I’ll just grab the spare set.”

We keep a spare set in a secret place. (Not the place that you are thinking of, Mr. Burglar.blogspot.com). But there is a problem. A big problem. The problem being that I have given the spare set to the cleaner that does not exist.

“They’re not there,” I blurt.

“What do you mean they’re not there?!?”

“They’re not… there.” And then – stroke of genius – “I think a bird took them.”

She looks at me as if I’d just started hurling cheese at the upstairs windows.

“Don’t be so stupid. I’m going to look for the spare keys.”

“They’re really, definitely not there!” I plead, truthfully. “I looked earlier, when it was light.”

Honestly. I know she’s desperate to get me into bed, but if she would just keep still for a moment and trust me.

“It happened before – remember? Because they’re shiny. A bird took them.”

Much as you may scoff, my story wasn’t that implausible. They had been moved before, to a nearby ‘nest in progress’.

She pauses, then drops a bombshell.

“We’ll go next door to Short Tony’s,” reasons the LTLP. Short Tony also has a spare key. Their lights are on, they are at home. No problem.

But there is a problem. A big problem. Again.

Because the Short Tonies know very well why the spare keys aren’t there. But I haven’t had time to prime them about my small and innocent act of subterfuge. They will immediately give the game away.

She heads off purposefully towards the gap in the fence.

I am but moments away from discovery.

Concluded tomorrow

Continued from last week

To recap, for readers who haven’t read Friday’s post, or who had a particularly heavy weekend, I have secretly employed a cleaner in order to appear that I am a ‘new man’. I will then get more sex from the LTLP.

Thursday morning.

My illicit secret cleaner arrived!!!

Mrs. Cleaner had only half her usual time, and we spent a lot of that on administrative matters, but she managed to do a sterling job on the kitchen. It’s white.

I squirreled her away, and even managed to get in a round of pitch and putt with Short Tony before the LTLP arrived home. I bathed, making sure to carefully wash my sex areas.

“Gosh! You’ve cleaned the kitchen!” she exclaimed.

I nodded modestly, mixing her a strong drink.

“And the cooker as well,” she observed.

“You’re home so early today,” I said. “Why don’t we go out to eat tonight? I’ll drive, so you can have another drink.”

Continued tomorrow