Today was a partucuallarly frustrating day with my mother.

In the morning she got into a terrible state about getting some money out of a savings account, something which she finds it unbelievably distressing to do, despite having a considerable amount of savings.  The situation was made worse because she gave the wrong password on the phone.

Then she couldn't eat the roast chicken lunch she likes me to cook her every week.  Oh yes, and we had some nasty remark about Barak Obama's wife, who looks "too black".

Later, she said her help, Maria, didn't like, probably because - unlike Maria - " you haven't managed to lose weight"

As I said last week, I'm pretty sure the main reason I have a large stomach is I'm holding back all the negative feelings I'm afraid to express to my mother.

Anyway, on my own in the Close's apparently empty car park, before starting the engine and driving off  for the weekly supermarket trip, I vented some of my friustration on the steering wheel, with the door open (it was hot).  For the record I used no Anglo Saxon language.

"Stop swearing, please," said a winey male Surrey voice (not the voice of the guy who last week had tried to grab my stomach).

Was someone trying to make a male-bondy sort of joke?  I got out of the car, more puzzled than furious.  There was no one visible around.  The  relf-righteous fucker was  hiding.  No joke.

The place is like a middle class thing-Vaizey. I eschew(spelling?) all physical violence.  Still, I do hope, I get, one day to the gates of heaven sp I can bribe St Peter to treat my mother's village as a Puitainical Gomorrah and turn each and every inhabitant into a pillar of salt.