The boys in the lift and the leg of salted ham

The Canadian geese are back, circling overhead. Masses of them come to earth and the grassland along the River Mile disappears fast…..so do the Canadian geese thanks to Hana the Serbian sniper.

I’ve had to deliver a trolley-load to three guys I hammered at football, just to placate them. They still have bruises and keep kicking me at work in the lift. Split Pea took another four for his regular customers. He’s pretty well upgraded from pigeons now, the ones he caught under the railway bridge back at Three Arches. He’s moved to a new house just next from Gatwick airport. I’m thinking of selling space in his drive for parking, he doesn’t yet know.

Edward Scissorhands, who became one of them, unashamedly crossing the great divide from editorial to advertising two months ago, is still visible in the far distance. His head is there over the great divide. Julius says it’s a big improvement.

Edward’s new seating is next to mystery-man Frieze-dried Banesto. We sort of inherited the guy when we moved….one day we were all boxed up and bundled out of our happy home up on the tenth floor, like one Friday afternoon, and unpacked our familiar sprawl into a mirror of space on the fifth floor, on the Monday morning after….and Freize-dried B was sort of already here, manacled top the wall.

Who left him? Who knows. We throw him food. He likes it.

Julius has spend three days hiding in Mr Sorehead’s secret cupboard. Only towards the end did he realise the leg he kept touching wasn’t that of his one remaining Russian bride at all, but a salted ham. The Shining Light is due amongst us again next week, so we can anticipate Julius repeating the same avoidance routine. He’s such a coward.

New-world-man Scissorhands has taken up mountain-biking. Well sort of. He’s been letting Erroll get him sorted, so they’ve variously been in four leaky sheds for six various weekends and now have 15 non-compatible nearly-ready bikes-to-go. Most have a front wheel. One has three wheels. That was a mistake. He might be out on the muddy stuff by Easter.

Father-of-SnipSnip’s road bike has been pressed into service. We might see new-world-man Edward in lycra soon. We could send Claire Moody the photos.

No further sightings of David Icke but the twelve-foot lizards are still on the prowl. They’ve been off and eaten Button’s goats, well four of them. Split-pea is fearing for his in-laws.

Since moving, we’re share the entire fifth floor, half and half, with another magazine, so another load of journos. These ones cover catering and they do trials in the fridge….with strawberries and raspberries. They turn grey after a time…. I could have told them right off that soft fruits won’t fossilise even if you leave them for three months. Funny how things eventually drip.

I’m still a new boy at yoga. We do it here on a Thursday. It’s magic. I have pains all through Friday in places I’ve never had before. Dave, my IT insider here, can stand on his head. The yoga lady rings a bell at the end now because I relax and go off to sleep on my mat.
Buttons and Tex both won prizes to come but they never show up. When it’s time to go, they both hide in the Sorehead cupboard. Julius prefers them to the salt