Dear Journal…

Dear Journal,

As I made my way home today, snow fell in fits and starts. Excited by this, I determined that this would be the day when Anya would experience her first snowball fight. Of course, being mother England, very little settled; instead, the garden had turned to a white-flecked slurry of mud and goo.

Still, I’d made myself a promise, so, undaunted, I made the best of it. I thought it through, of course – it wouldn’t do to make a mess of clothes or kitchen. So naked I went. Of course, being a dog, Anya was already undressed.

I have to admit, it wasn’t quite the adventure I’d hoped for, and in fact, Anya didn’t seem too enthused about it at all – I suppose dogs are already quite acquainted with dirt, and as there was more dirt than snow, I suspect that she didn’t see the festive side to my cavorting. It’s a bit much… I don’t look at her so judgementally when she ends up covered in muck.

It was nice to finally meet the neighbours, though, although if Anya was non-plussed, they looked positively apoplectic. It took me a few moments to realise why they greeted my enthusiastic salutations with such apparent distress, and of course, what with them being such attractive young women, I flushed instantly. I tried to assure them that far from a critique on their obvious charms, my body was merely reacting to the cold, but it seemed the damage was already done. Before I could even explain that I had reckoned without the deceptive wind-chill factor, they had retreated back out of sight.

I hope I get the opportunity to apologise for the perceived insult, and am already wracking my brains for some way of proving that, on a clement day or with the benefit of appropriate central heating, they are more than attractive enough to garner a more complimentary response. Still, only a thin wall separates our respective habitats, so I’m confident that the opportunity will arise at some point.

Payday today, and I await J’s completion of his daily chores so that we can go and drink too much cheap alcohol.

After two weeks, it becomes clear that sharing a house with J. was a good decision - we already seem relaxed with each other’s foibles, and I anticipate a very short spell before our cycles begin to align.

We’re very well suited as housemates – J. skilfully avoids any social awkwardness over the dead prostitutes that he now finds himself having to deal with; For my part, I keep a tight lid on any jokes about the peculiar grunts and bleats emanating from his bedroom as he reaches the climactic end of an “Operation-Flashpoint” mission.

I am quite proud of him, actually - he seems to have come very quickly to the understanding that single life means never having to explain your “oh” face occurring during an episode of Band Of Brothers.

Hopefully now he has an insight into the events leading to the calming of my nerves after my own catastrophic relationship collapse. I believe that he, and others, had put my recovery down to a massive addiction to clinical morphine, and while relieved for me, I suspect that they feared for my financial well-being.

I took no offence at that assumption – after all, how else could I have dealt so quickly with the crushing, throttling, suffocating feelings of inadequacy left to me like some warped belated valentine by my own beloved and now lost X?

Of course, now J. knows that I have discovered that the most effective way to quell those feelings isn’t, as I’d previously believed, to go to the source… I’ve worked out that making the looks of disdain and pity disappear from the eyes of my merciful angels of the night, my surrogate loathers, settles my angst pretty well.

There is one clash of ideals in our happy household – being a devout atheist, J. finds that my prayers of thanks to the dead whores don’t sit too well. But he’s most tolerant, for which I am grateful.