Stardust Diaries 2007

by Swan, Tarn

  The couple's son and daughter came to the shop to collect the ring their father had bought for their mother. It was an emotional event for all concerned and again Twinks wracked himself over it.

  I ended up bringing the situation under my jurisdiction as household dominant. With Twinkles it's the only way to go sometimes. Sympathy, kind understanding and copious reassurances don't always have the necessary effect. Sometimes a touch of steel needs to be added. I gave Jonathan my view of the situation and his part in it - utterly blameless - and told him it was now his view and any detraction from it would be severely dealt with. It helped and he calmed down. He often needs to be swaddled by tight boundaries.

  As a result of the tragedy he became obsessed with my cholesterol levels. He cruised into the kitchen one morning just as I was about to take a bite of toast and demanded to know if it had butter on it? I nodded. The toast was immediately plucked from my hand and dropped into the pedal bin. My heart sank as I viewed the manic gleam in his eyes. He was a man on a crusade and I was the one he was after converting.

  He told me butter was off the menu, as was cream, chips and fats of any kind. He'd been reading up on the Internet about the rising incidence of heart attacks in men my age. After what had happened to my friend Paul and the poor gentleman in the shop he had decided he was going to safeguard my heart health. With that in mind he was making me an appointment for a check up at the Well Man Clinic that very day, which I would attend.

  I love it when he tries to go masterful on me and lay down the law, especially when he's starkers save for a pair of pink fluffy mules. Pulling him onto my lap I told him that having a scraping of butter on my morning toast was not going to induce a heart attack. Some fats in the diet are necessary for good health. As for the Well Man Clinic, there was no need. I had a yearly check up at work and I was fine.

  He asked when my next medical was due. I told him July. He told me in that case not only was butter off the menu, so was sex until my medical confirmed my fitness for such activity. He didn't want me dropping dead during orgasmic ecstasy due to a dicky ticker.

  I told him he was naughty for trying to blackmail me and besides I doubted he could forego sex for almost three months. He reminded me he had a friend who could help him out in that department, meaning my old childhood hand puppet Croc. I reminded him that Croc was rightfully mine and if need be I would sue him for custody. He said Croc wasn't a sex slave to be roughly used against his will and if I so much as put a finger on him, never mind a hand up him, he would go to the newspapers and expose me as a cruel crocophile.

  On a serious note I told him I didn't want him to go off on some hysterical tangent regarding my cardiac health. I wasn't going to radically alter my lifestyle. I have a relatively healthy diet and life is for living not stressing about. I would go to the Well Man Clinic on the proviso he also had a check up and then that was it. We were not going to put ourselves under any more stress than normal living already afforded. If I wanted butter on my toast I would have it.

  Our health check ups were fine, but he still won't allow me to buy butter if he can help it. He takes it out of the basket when I'm not looking. If I do manage to get a block of Lurpak through the checkout it usually disappears under mysterious circumstances at home and I have to spread Benecol low cholesterol stuff on my morning toast. It’s horrible.

  More catch up news later. The Three Must Be Queers otherwise known as Twinkles, Teddy and Maurice are summoning me in perfect harmony.

  “Tarn, Tarn, we're waiting for you. Tarn, what are you doing?”

  So help me God if Teddy claps his hands at me once more to chivvy me along I will clap my hands around his neck and not let go until he turns blue. I'll be glad when this week is over. It's been gay purgatory as far as I'm concerned. I’ve been ensnared in a nightmare. Mark my words there'll be tears before bedtime tonight, and not Twinkles. They'll be mine. I'm on the cusp.

  12th April ~ Anally Retentive

  Constipation is often a subject of jokes, but believe me it's no joke if you suffer from it. It’s a miserable, painful and debilitating condition. It’s making my life hell at the moment. I wouldn't mind, but it's not me that's suffering from it. It’s Twinks. I told him not to gorge his greedy face on Easter eggs last weekend. A surfeit of chocolate always clogs up his system, but does he learn, no he does not. He wilfully goes ahead and does exactly what he wants to do at the moment without sparing a thought for the consequences. He's like a big kid when it comes to sweets. Once he starts he can't stop. He has absolutely no self-discipline.

  He's been in a filthy mood for the past few days, snapping and snarling and banging and slamming because he's bloated and got stomachache and his clothes feel uncomfortably tight and restrictive. Nothing has shifted him, talk about anally retentive. He’s tried drinking gallons of water and orange juice. He’s eaten prunes, which he describes as being akin to chewing on shrivelled cockroaches. He’s even had laxatives, but with no result. He hasn't so much as broken wind if you'll pardon the expression. It's having a negative effect on both our lives.

  He's enthroned in the bathroom at the moment. He’s making a last ditch attempt to evacuate his bowels manually and of his own free will before I carry out the threat I made this morning after he threw a box of All Bran at me in temper. I managed to catch the box before it bounced off my head, but still ended up showered with twiggy bits of breakfast cereal. It was time to bring out the heavy guns.

  After autographing his arse and making him sweep up the mess he’d made I told him I was going to give him something he absolutely loathes this evening, an enema. I mean it too. This has dragged on long enough. I can hear him moaning with misery, my poor baby. To my mind a few minutes of something you dislike is worth it for the relief it will bring, to both of us.

  His bowel antics aren’t the only shit aspect of today. I was first to enter the house after work this evening while he popped in on Katie to deliver the gold chain he’d had repaired for her at the shop. To my dismay I found an all too familiar type written envelope lying on the doormat.

  My stomach turned over. It’s been ages since we’ve had a note from our admirer. I was hoping they’d finally gotten bored of their spiteful hobby. I couldn’t be pestered to open it. I shoved it in the drawer while muttering curses against the sender.

  Time to gird my loins and get out the enema equipment. It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. He’ll thank me in the end.

  13th May ~ The Queen’s Speech

  Now I'm sitting here I don't know what to write. Him in charge always seems to find plenty to write about when he parks in front of the computer screen. Once he starts there's no stopping him. I've been a laptop and computer widow upon occasion I can tell you and to think he has the cheek to label me a gossip queen. I'm a few vowels and consonants behind him when it comes to electronic chat. Just a sec. I'll ask the expert what I should write.

  He's no help sometimes he really isn't. He says I'm already writing and just to write what comes into my head. He never thought to see the day when I was lost for words. What did I tell you? No help at all!

  Here we go then with my diary debut. I'm quite excited to be making an entry and I could insert a very gay joke here, possibly more than one, but I won't, because I'm on my best behaviour. I don’t want my entry to be withdrawn on account of smut.

  In case you're wondering by the way I'm Twinkles or to use my Sunday name, Jonathan. My very own household God, he who must be obeyed, has granted me a special dispensation to update his precious diary, not that he gave me his password or anything mind you. He typed that in himself. It’s not that he doesn't trust me. He’s always allowed me access to his diary. He says I am his diary, so why wouldn't he want me to read it, but read only. He says it's his diary and he knows me I'd interfere at every opportunity and try to change things I didn't like. True.

  He's smiling and teasing me now because I'm talking out loud as I'm typing. He says living with me is like living with tinnitus
because I provide a constant hum, ring and buzz in his ears. He need talk. He’s bent my shell likes a time or two with the sound of his voice. I suppose I do talk a lot sometimes. I don't mean to. It just happens. Something comes into my mind and I think I'm thinking it, but actually I'm speaking it aloud. It’s not my fault my mouth has a will of its own.

  I'm exactly the same at work. I’ll give you an example. I had a male customer once who had a mouthful of rotten teeth and terrible myximatosis. Tarn says, no dear, he wasn't a rabbit he had halitosis.

  Whatever he had his breath was shocking, worse than Barry's used to be. It could have stopped and stunned a rampaging bull. It made me feel sick. I had to keep bobbing down behind the counter to catch my breath. Anyway, I thought I was thinking: I wonder if he'll be offended if I recommend a dental visit and offer him a breath mint. Only I didn't just think it I said it out loud, and he was offended. It was so embarrassing. He complained to my manager and I got a reprimand and a slap on the wrist.

  Tarn says my mouth isn't the only thing that has a will all its own and sometimes he suspects my ‘out loudisms’ are done on purpose. I think I might have to slap his hand in a minute. He’s not the only one who can administer discipline around here you know.

  Sometimes when I'm getting on his nerves or giving him a headache, he kisses his finger then places it on my lips. It's his way of saying I love you, but please shut up for a minute, or an hour or more. He's a bit of an optimist like that. He says it kindly though. He’s a kind man. I wouldn't want any of you who read this little epistle to think otherwise. That’s not to say he isn't grumpy at times, because he is. He can be very, very grumpy, just ask his work colleagues. Believe me he can nag for Britain when he puts his mind to it, just like his father, old dull duck. I say to him sometimes, you sound just like your father and if you're not careful your hair will thin the same way.

  Joan, his mum, tells him the same thing, but does he listen, no! He just keeps on nagging and disapproving. There are times when he's so prudish he'd be hard to pick out from a crowd of elderly virgin Shaker matriarchs. He's shaking his head now. He knows I'm only kidding, well partly.

  I hope you can lip-read because I'm going to whisper this next bit because I don't want Tarn to hear. I quite like it when he disapproves. He gives me this certain look. It makes my knees turn to water. He’s sexy, for a kind man anyway. Kind men aren't often sexy. They can be too easily taken advantage of. He's sexy and kind. I can only take advantage of him for so long before he says enough is enough and takes action. I like that he takes action, not particularly at the time, especially if the action results in some skirt up, knickers down discomfort, but in general I do like him being in control in and out of the bedroom.

  I've always liked dominant types. Most of the men I met before Tarn weren't brave enough to stick around and be dominant, especially after seeing me in high heels and a dress. Dominance took a back seat to cowardice and they disappeared over the horizon faster that a cartoon roadrunner. Tarn’s a real man. He stayed even though he knew it was going to be a tough call.

  I think I might be getting the hang of this journal thing now. I'm beginning to flow, either that or I've wet myself, no, no I haven't. I'm joking.

  Getting back to him in charge. I wanted him from the moment he walked into my place of work. Something clicked when I saw him. I think it was my heart locking in love. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. The second time he came into my place of work something told me I had him. Our eyes met across a crowded shop and I just knew he fancied me. He's not a movie star by any means, but he does have fabulous blue eyes and fair but by no means blonde hair (he won't let me highlight it) a warm sexy smile and great arms to cuddle up in.

  I don't know why I'm writing all these nice things about him. He told me off this afternoon for buying a new pair of shoes when I was out with Joan. He said I had more than enough shoes and it was ridiculous to shell out a fortune for something I would only wear a handful of times. See what I mean about him nagging, especially about money. He can be as tight as a duck's arse, or a swan's bottom in his case.

  I pointed out that while he might be happy with a pair of Reebok trainers and a couple of pairs of Margaret Rutherford style sensible brogues in brown and black, I wasn't. I had a reputation for style and taste to upkeep, as well as a dainty ankle to show to advantage.

  All these years we've been together and he still doesn't get that a unique person such as myself can never have too many shoes or dresses, or anything. It’s an uphill struggle trying to educate him. He's stubborn and wilfully blinkered when it comes to the essentials needed by a conscientious fashionista.

  Getting back to my new shoes, they’re gorgeous. They’re haute couture lime green metallic leather with toning green rhinestones, ankle straps and stick thin silver heels. As soon as I saw them I knew I had to have them. They had my name written all over them, well the rhinestones twinkled under the shop lights and that was as good as a signature to me. I need something to go with them now, a nice dressy dress, but they'll also look good with skinny jeans and a rugby top. Not that I own any rugby tops. I’ll borrow one of Tarn’s, and maybe tart it up with a few sequins.

  He’s rolling his eyes and sighing now. He has not got a fashion conscious cell in his body, not one. I blame his father. The man still wears high wing collars, or at least he would if they still made them.

  My friend Lu is coming over tonight. She wants me to put a colour on her hair, raven black. I've told her. I've warned her. It’ll age her. Black is aging. It absorbs the light and draws attention to your frown lines. Honey blonde will be better, but you can't tell Lulu anything. She does her own sweet thing. Black hair I ask you. The giddy girl thinks she's a born again emo or something. Frigging emu more like. I'll be the one picking up the pieces and mopping up tears when she ends up looking like Rod Hull's sidekick.

  I can't wait to show her my new shoes. She’ll absolutely adore them and she'll be green with envy, mind you at least she'll match my shoes. I could use a good accessory. I could take her out in place of a handbag, considering what she's had up...Tarn says if I even think about telling any vulgar jokes about Lulu’s anal capacity he'll be very cross. You get censorship everywhere these days.

  If Lu's hair is done in time and she doesn't chuck a paddy because my predictions about it being a disaster turn out to be true, we might pop out to the PP for an hour or so later. I don't like leaving Tarn alone too long, not since the car accident. That’s why he hasn't been journaling lately. He’s been recuperating from a car smash. His left leg was broken in the crash. He also suffered concussion, broken fingers and soft tissue damage to his back.

  He keeps telling me he was lucky. It could have been a lot worse considering the car was a total write off. I’m not too sorry about the car. It was a frigging boring blue Yaris, not exactly glamorous. It was hit by a transit van doing something like seventy mph with only one roadworthy tyre to its name. It happened on Friday the thirteenth of April. I've always said superstitions around that date were well founded.

  On the morning the accident happened we’d had a bit of a barney. I was going through my usual Friday the thirteenth warding off evil routine: crossing fingers, throwing salt over my shoulder that kind of thing, only I accidentally showered him and his breakfast with it. Then I couldn't find my lucky rabbit's foot brooch and said I couldn't possibly leave the house without it, not on Friday the thirteenth. He’d have to call me in sick at work. He came over all exasperated. He’s got no patience. He had aspirations to be a teacher once. Thank God nothing came of it, not with his lack of tolerance toward human foible. He told me not to be silly, grabbed my jacket, marched me out of the house and shoved me in the car.

  He dropped me off at work. I was annoyed with him and declined to kiss him goodbye. I headed over the road to the shop without turning around to give him a little wave as he drove off, as I usually do.

  I'd just unlocked the main shutter and was pulling it up when I heard the most
terrible sounds shatter the air. I'll never forget the sound of metal impacting with metal. It was horrific. I knew there’d been a car crash and I instinctively knew Tarn was involved.

  I don't remember running down the street. I just remember the sight of our car all mangled and the sound of my feet crunching over broken glass. I was shouting his name only there was no answer. I couldn't get to him because the car doors wouldn't open and someone kept trying to pull me away. Then there were sirens and lights. It's all a confused blur of sound and motion.

  There was one horrible moment of clarity that seemed to go on forever, when I watched him being cut free from the wreckage. I fainted with relief when they told me he wasn't dead. They had to take me to hospital with him. He remained unconscious for over ten hours. They were the longest darkest hours of my life. I can't bear to think about it, so I'm not going to anymore. Tarn will probably fill in more details when he feels up to tinkering with his diary again.

  Lu's here now. I can hear her key in the lock. Tarn says we ought to put her name on the mortgage deeds seeing as the cheeky mare acts like she has a share in the place. He loves her really. He was as happy as I was when she got washed back ashore from her shipping trip.

  I've chipped my nail polish tapping away on this keyboard. My perfect pink isn't perfect anymore. Incidentally you wouldn't believe the gunk clogged between these keys. It's frigging disgusting. Tarn eats over the keyboard. I keep telling him it's unhygienic. I bet there's some of his dandruff in here as well and God knows what else. He need complain about some of my habits, not in view of the ones he practices. I'll have to hoover it out later and rub a bit of Dettol over it.

  Considering I didn't know what to write when I started I've written quite a bit. I'm pleased. I always knew I was creative in more ways than one. Maybe I'll write a novel or better still a play or a film script. I could play the leading lady myself, someone beautiful and sophisticated with an extensive wardrobe of dresses and shoes. In fact I could also play the leading man, someone handsome, charismatic, sensitive and with a flair for fitted shirts and interior design. I'll have to go. Lu's is demanding my attention. It’s all me, me, me with her.