My wife says...

It's only day 3 of the painters but my wife is losing it. She phones up regularly to regale my with what they did next: "You wouldn't believe...". Today's list includes Pshamak burning the worktop in the kitchen with a hot coffee pot straight off the stove (rendering my earlier comment to Yol "He seems the more together of the two" redundant); Danny leaving the front door open constantly so the cats could go play in traffic; Danny saying to Yol "warm my cup of tea up for me, nuh?" and when she said she would show him how so he could do it himself he said "I don't like to take advantage, see?"; Pshamak changing the plugs and light switches without turning the fuse box off ("I didn't like to do that. Yolanda needs to work." Sweet.); Pshamak announcing to Yol that there'd be no electricity in most of the house as he had cemented up the plugs and light switches and had to leave it off overnight; more I can't remember. I daren't go home.

From my wife: The Decorators

YZ writes:
"It's day one. Danny and Pshamak (the P's silent, but if you're Polish Pshamak can hear it) finally show up a week and a half hour late to start painting and decorating the various bits of our house that look even more scuzzy than the other bits that aren't being done because to have the whole thing done would cost us more than the GDP of a small developing country.

They start off by burying anything remotely useful (TV, cheque books, shoes, car keys and so on) under blue sheeting which is then taped down for the duration (estimated time 7 days, realtime 20 days). This takes the best part of the morning then Danny takes a break to go and buy some shoes and sardines and Pshamak knocks off for the day, mumbling something about having to go finish off somewhere else. You have to admire his honesty I guess. The thing with Pshamak is, I can't help feeling that he probably speaks English perfectly well and just uses the fake accent to make communication all but impossible. Which would fit in with PJ's theory that he's actually John Cusack researching a new role.

The communication thing is also a bit of a problem with Danny, whose thick accent (he's a Rasta from Antigua) means I have to ask him to repeat everything he says including 'Can I have a cup of tea please', 'I'm over here - having a bit of a lie down', 'I'll have some of that stomach medicine you mentioned', 'I'm going to pick up my son now so can you close the windows upstairs' and 'Where's the pear juice you bought me? I'll take one home and leave one here for tomorrow' ­ at least twice. He's a well cheeky one that Danny. But at least he sweeps up before knocking off.

Of course the communication thing between Pshamak and Danny is priceless. Neither one of them can understand the other at all, so it's like being in the Chelsea dressing room. But at least John Terry's shoes aren't buried under blue plastic sheeting."

"I can't go to Hackney...

"...looking like this," said my wife, "I look like a cunt."

Last night she dreamt she was at an opening party for Habitat. For reference she was wearing a white linen top and pale lime linen shorts.

This picture of Ron Maiden is in no way a reflection of her current state of mind. Having said that our next door neighbour just popped round, back from holday (2 weeks in Greece since you ask), and as soon as I opened the door she said "Are you OK?" and put on a very concerned face. So who am I to criticise anyone for anything? (I have shaved now though).

David Essex and Tommy Roberts circa 1987

Hey the good old days! While the cool people (my wife for example) were out with Leigh Bowery and going to cool clubs (the names of which escape me temporarily) I was hanging with my homeboy David Essex. Apparently he's really mean and is notorious for never buying a round in Annabel's or Stringfellow's or wherever it is that people with unironic mullets go these days.