By Spectator Kalaki
Oh Dear Diary, My poor old Scotty looked such a mess when he came to breakfast this morning, still in his dressing gown, unshaven and confused. The first thing he did was to knock the sugar bowl onto the floor. ‘Who put the damn sugar bowl there?’ he shouted.
‘You’ve forgotten your glasses,’ I said gently.
‘Enema!’ he shouted for one of the servants. ‘Enema!’
‘Darling,’ I said, ‘her name’s not Enema, it’s Enela. I’ll go and get your glasses. We must learn to become self-reliant. We won’t always be living in this house with twenty-seven servants.’
‘We’re the servants of the people,’ he cackled, ‘so we have to be looked after properly.’
When I came back he was trying to read The Pest. ‘I don’t seem to look very well in this picture,’ he whined. ‘Are they trying to make me look silly?’
‘You’ve got the newspaper upside down,’ I said. ‘Try it again after putting on your reading glasses. And here are your false teeth, they will help you tackle the cornflakes.’
Oh Dear Diary, He used to be so handsome and energetic. Never marry a man twenty years older than yourself.
Oh Dear Diary, Another struggle with My Old Man at breakfast. At least he arrived with his teeth and spectacles, but his eyes were bloodshot, his breath was poisonous, and the wobble had returned to his right arm.
‘Have you taken the pills for your wobbly right arm, dear?’ I asked him gently.
‘Useless fart of a doctor, his bloody pills don’t work,’ he snorted. So saying, he took a hip flask out of this dressing gown, and poured whisky all over his cornflakes. ‘This should do the trick’ he chuckled. ‘What’s on my programme today?’
‘You’ve got all day to try to make yourself look presentable,’ I said. ‘This evening you have go to another gala dinner, Christine is being given another award.’
‘What for this time?’ he growled.
‘She’s being given the award for being the Woman with the Most Awards.’
‘Is Michael going?’
‘No,’ I laughed, ‘He’s resting. He’s not a young man like you to be gallivanting around to all these award ceremonies.’
That evening I dressed him up in his dark grey suit. It didn’t fit properly on his hunched back, but the sleeves were long enough to hide his wobbly hand.
Oh Dear Diary, Sometimes I remember those young men that courted me at college.
Dear Diary, Last night my Old Man never reached his bed. He was brought home unconscious from the gala dinner, and left to sleep it off on the sofa. Strangely enough, this made his appearance at breakfast more presentable. When he finally woke up and staggered towards the breakfast table he was still wearing his suit, spectacles and teeth from the night before. Although he did have some trouble eating his cornflakes because he spent a long time finding his wobbly hand in his long sleeve.
‘There is a report here in The Pest,’ I said grimly, ‘of your behaviour at the gala dinner. It says that you defended the government by saying We men know what we’re doing. We’re not like women quarreling about which one has been sleeping with somebody’s husband.’
‘I don’t remember saying that.’
‘That’s the remarkable thing about you. You can never remember saying anything. Especially after insulting all the women in the country, including your wife who works hard to make you look normal. According to The Pest report, your statement came straight after several members of the cabinet had a fight about who was sleeping with somebody’s wife. And then, after your heroic statement that We men know what we are doing, you collapsed and were carried out.’
‘Really Lotty,’ he replied, sounding genuinely hurt, ‘you know what the doctor said about my brain not being properly connected to my legs. You should be more sympathetic.’
Dear Diary, The real problem is that his brain is not properly connected to his tongue.
When my poor Old Dotty came to the breakfast table this morning, he seemed confused, but got my name right on the third attempt.
‘Look at this headline in The Pest, I said. ‘You told parliament that some of your cabinet colleagues are corrupt. Have you gone completely mad?’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I was defending my friend Kapimbe, who had previously said the same thing.’
‘But why defend him? Is he not going to be fired?’
‘I have to defend him, because he is supposed to take over from me, so I can retire. That was the original arrangement. But if he is fired, I shall be stuck with this job until I die.’ Tears ran down his wrinkled old face and dripped into his breakfast whisky.
Don’t tell anybody, Dear Diary, but next time I shall marry a younger man, energetic and witty. I already have my eye on Spectator Kalaki.