“You want chilli sauce with that?”

I stared at him in some bemusement. There was surely no situation ever when somebody would be able to eat ‘that’ not saturated in taste-numbing chilli sauce.

The elephant leg revolved on the skewer. I resolved not to ask the origin of the meat, or whether it was organic. For one night only I would push my morals to one side and eat something from a battery sheep.

The kebab tastes fatty and oniony. Note – that is not me slipping into the present tense to create a sense of immediacy. It is two days on, and as I write this, the bloody kebab STILL tastes fatty and oniony.

Like those people who say they can still feel their arms after they have been amputated, I have some form of phantom kebab in my mouth. It was extremely inconvenient at my Important Meeting yesterday, and now it’s frankly bugging me, like a dinner party guest who’s outstayed his welcome, drunk all your port and is now talking at length about the sexual problems he’s having with his wife despite your frantic efforts to get rid of him by hinting sharply and playing Dido.

Scientifically, the only thing that gets rid of kebab-taste is a McDonald’s chocolate milkshake. I’m home now and the nearest one is fifteen miles away.

The day is not starting well.

I have joined an exclusive tennis club.

Both Short Tony and I signed up for ‘family membership’. It’s twenty pounds a year for everything, so we were determined to get our money’s worth.

Luckily, my sister left her tennis equipment with me when she went travelling, so I had a professional-looking tennis bag, like at Wimbledon. To help my performance, I had an isotonic pie for lunch and dug out my sporty Matelan tracksuit top.

I went next door, feeling psychologically advantaged. Short Tony opened the door in brand new Nike gear right down to the shoes. I was a bit crushed, but if he wants to win by viciously exploiting the homeless orphans in the third world then that is his choice.

Even if he beat me 6-0 6-0 6-0, I would still be the real winner.

I haven’t played tennis since I was a teenager, and I was astonished at the changes in the game. For a start, it’s a lot more difficult to hit it over the net or between the white lines, and running around to get to the ball is far harder work. It was probably best that they changed the game like this, as people like Pete Sampras were getting too good at it, although I was a bit irritated that he has spoiled it for the rest of us.

The other thing is that the bats are not made of wood any more, because it is endangered (I think). So I had to make do with my sister’s graphitey one, which is a different shape than I am used to. This caused me problems as it means I don’t know whether I am playing with a girls’ bat or not, so I am worried about people laughing at me.

We played two sets and got drenched. I lost but it was very enjoyable and we decided to play regularly. I may even decide to enter Wimbledon next year, although I am realistic that I am unlikely to get past the first couple of rounds.

I am now in the market for a headband like the best players wear. That will give me the edge.

Not quite a day off today.

Young Crumb asked me to contribute to his regular ‘Friday Fuckwit’ anthology. So you’ll find a piece from me over there.

If you’re at a loose end over the weekend, here are two things that I loved.

Bandhag’s ‘Fleabag! Fleabag!’ Emails you wish you’d sent (pt 3).

Unluckyman’s ridiculous facial hair parade.

Have a good weekend.

A Bath Man arrived.

He examined the stains left by the Body Shop Bath Bomb fiasco, scratched his tattoos then returned to his van for a selection of strong chemicals, which he handled gingerly using thick gloves. They didn’t quite steam and bubble, but weren’t something that I’d have wanted to down in one, even if I’d been an EXTREMELY thick rugby player.

The dye melted and dribbled away in the face of this corrosive onslaught.

I was very pleased with how the Body Shop dealt with it. I spoke to a nice lady on the phone – presumably Mrs Roddick – who was very apologetic in a non-Tony Blair sort of way. She is going to send me some vouchers, which will handily cover my female Christmas present needs.

Later on, I pondered the Bath Man’s parting words.

“I’d give that a bit of a rinse round before you use it again, mate.”

I reflected on the meaning of the words themselves, but mainly the irony of the fact that I’d only been able to collect my thoughts and remember this piece of advice because I’d just climbed into a nice deep relaxing bath.

I lifted my head out of the water in some concern.

I’m one of those people that tends to think a lot about things, rather than a practical action type of man. Cerebral – that’s me.

If, for instance, you were Pavarotti and jumped from an eighth floor window and I was standing underneath, my immediate reaction would be to reflect on “why on Earth did you do that?” and “I bet there’ll be another Greatest Hits compilation rushed out quick” and “gosh – isn’t that a marvellously dramatic and musical ‘aaaarrrghhh!!!!’” rather than to do something impetuous and leap out of the way.

So I lay there, trying to work out whether the slight burning sensation on my face was an over-active imagination in a hot bath or horrible chemical burns that would make me look like the Joker from Batman.

I really, really didn’t want to look like the Joker from Batman. For a start, I am self-employed which means I need to meet people face-to-face and charm them, and I don’t think this would be feasible in this event, unless I started up some bizarre government clown outsourcing services agency.

Plus if I was going to be horribly scarred into a bad guy from Batman then I would prefer to be the Penguin, as I could then live in my bookcase-dungeon thing and have a stylish umbrella. The sixties TV series starring Adam West and Burt Ward please, rather than the films.

I decided on a course of action and got out of the bath.

My face was smarting a bit, but no serious damage. I will have to be a normal-looking master criminal, but obviously I could still play practical jokes if I wanted.

I washed the bath around and ran another one.

Monday 3.30pm. Home. The LTLP is on the sofa under a blanket, shivering and whimpering. She’s not been well for a couple of days, but this is a turn for the worse. I’ve been working hard all morning, and now resolve to look after her.

Sometimes when somebody is ill, the best sort of looking after that you can do is not to disturb them. That allows them to rest. So I wander next door to see if Short Tony fancies a quick pint.

5.30pm. The Village Pub.

“I’m not ASKING you to come home. I’m asking IF you are COMING home.”

Mrs. Short Tony’s feet stare accusingly at me. I realise that our ‘we’re not in here’ ruse has failed, and crawl out from under the table. Behind me, Big A’s shoes poke out from behind the bulging drapes. Short Tony peers over the large menu and makes some conciliatory noises.

“Your LTLP says she’s hungry,” she adds, turning to me. I suddenly feel very guilty – she hadn’t had any lunch. I am a louse and a worm.

“Tell her I’ll be half an hour,” I promise. And then a brainwave. “I don’t suppose you’d mind heating her up some soup while you’re round there?”

6.45pm. At the bar.

“You see, the thing is – I’ve run out of money.”

The Well-Spoken Barman nodded amiably.

“I’ve run out of money. But I really really want to buy some more beer. So I don’t suppose you could see your way to offering credit facilities?”

7pm. We stare in bemusement at the hurriedly-departing figure of Big A.

Short Tony shrugs. “Well. To be fair, that was the second full pint he’s dropped.”

8.30pm. Home. I am on the sofa under a blanket, shivering and whimpering. The whimpers are a bit echoey as I have my head in a big saucepan. The LTLP returns from answering the door.

“That was Short Tony,” she snuffles. “He swayed about a bit, then realised it was me and tried to hide behind the coal bunker.”

Makers of Elgoods’ Barleymead – you are hereby put on my list of death.

And hers, probably.

It’s a bookcase.

It’s set into the wall beside the fireplace. I keep books on it. Generally, they’re the impressive intellectual ones that I want people to think I read. The James Herberts, Tom Sharpes and back issues of ‘Bloggers’ Wives’ are all hidden away upstairs.

Sensibly, I spaced the shelves at different intervals. So there’s room for the big books at the bottom – the dictionaries etc, the regulation-sized paperbacks fit snugly at the top, and the annoying-sized-books-that-don’t-quite-fit-into-your-coat-pocket have a shelf all to themselves.

But the thing about the bookcase is:

It secretly swings out on hinges to reveal a concealed chamber beyond, like in the Scooby Doo cartoons.

It’s only a tiny little cellar-like space, but it’s got a genuine stone floor and everything. Honestly, it’s incredibly exciting. I must have opened and closed the bookcase hundreds of times already.

I’m genuinely thinking of employing an out-of-work actor to hide in there dressed in an old-fashioned diving suit, so they can lumber out scarily with their arms held out in front of them. I also thought of cutting a couple of holes in the back for eyes to peer through.

In an ideal world it would open automatically when I removed an appropriately-named book. Something like “This Book Opens The Secret Opening Bookcase” by Paul Itofftheshelfandthebookcasewillopen. But the technical requirements for that were a bit daunting.

I keep looking at it and touching it and opening and closing it. Really, if it were socially acceptable to have sex with a piece of furniture I would do it. But somebody would be bound to walk in on me and get the wrong impression, and besides, I haven’t cut the eye-holes yet.

I reckon I am the only person in the village who has a secret swingy-outy Scooby Doo bookcase.

It’s really really good. It really is.

I always dreamt of having one.

Right from when I was a kid. To me, it was the most exciting thing that one could possibly have in a house. I longed to be an adult so I could get one and prove myself a man.

No – not a drinks cabinet. I got one of those ages ago, and it did make me feel manly. I filled it with exotic bottles to offer people when they came round, and made sure that I locked it each time I closed the door. (Just in case).

No – not curtains that open and close using a piece of rope, rather than the common ‘manual draw’ method. We had those in our last residence, and I realised that they were false gods – fools’ gold on the road to furniture Nirvana.

I finished it at the weekend, and I am beside myself with excitement. It’s just… it’s just… no – I cannot think of a better phrase. It’s just “like – so cool”.

I’m very busy this morning, especially as I have to keep stopping work to get up and look at it.

So I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.