I’m Bad, I’m Bad, you know it, I’m Bad

Like some kind of Catholic Ostrich, I have been running around feeling guilty and sticking my head in the sand. I’ve been so bad so you could flay me and make a hat from my feathers.

I fell off the wagon for a few weeks.

It all started when Marcus announced he was leaving me for an arty woman who wears crushed velvet hats, listens to angry music and drinks cider. He said she understands the potential of a fruit more than I do.

She’ll be the one to get you out of the closet then, I replied, while waving a paintbrush violently in the air.

When he’d hauled his crap canvases out of the flat, I fell into gin-soaked pit of self flagellation. I had let that art harlot get hold of my boyfriend while I was busy with rules and hem-lines.

But as I wailed into my vase of gin and tonic, I realised that it wasn’t the end of a relationship that was making me sad, it was the fact that I’d been beaten to the finish line. I should have been the one to dump his abstract ass and threaten him with a truncheon like an East End hooligan until he paid me back the money he owes me.

Then all the stress led to a case of swine flu. For a week I writhed around in my own sweat taking calls from Suze who, like some dealer, kept threatening to come over and play backgammon or Happy Families.

Then one morning she just turned up at my door saying I could probably do with a good laugh at her new clogs. My defences crumbled entirely and I beat her at three games of Scrabble.

The flood gates had opened. As soon as I was well enough to return to work I unleashed my vengeance on Karen.

I planted a half finished bottle of whiskey in the top of her handbag before a meeting with Lydia Markhova (the model I found and that Karen took credit for).

I secreted slices of hard boiled egg at the back of her desk drawers and behind the hot bit of her computer.

Then I put a guide to conquering your chlamydia on her desk.

A week later Cream Horn was suggesting she took some time off to get to grips with her personal problems.

I felt terrible and confessed all to Suze. She whipped out Meredith’s telephone number and sat with me until I’d dialled. I got the message “Hello, this is Meredith. I am no longer contactable at this number” and it was all I needed to stop.

Although My Meredith based sin was committed many months ago, it was so strong I still can’t bring myself to talk about it and I am still atoning. Charactersitic behavior for a Catholic Ostrich.

To top it all off my all time King of Pop, Michael Jackson, died. At least there will be a market for my Jackson routine.

I will spend the lonely nights sewing sequins on my woolly gloves.

I heart you Michael.