HAPPY DAY

Happiest day of my life.

That's how I spot and process happiness: en effet, they're all -iest days.

I'm a whiney grizzler of a misery guts so if I can actually say at the time that j'suis content ~ by the viagra of Vergilia! I have to check my pulse in case I've at long last made it to the promised land.

I had a pal who'd close his eyes and take 'mental photographs' of the moment. He was embarrassing to stand next to.

I once asked a girlfriend of his who seemed to be lasting,

"You know when he closes his eyes and is taking a mental snap of the blissful occasion? Does he do that before, during, after sex?"

She wasn't the right kind to ask and seemed not to understand; then she did seem to understand and when Rob came back with the drinks, shifted ever so slightly away from him and eyed him with suspicion.

So whither this happiness, eh?

How dare anyone be happy when the rest of you are tearing yer hair out over bills, Himself in growly bear grouch - and #1 daughter announcing she's renouncing Oxford and will be joining rugged Tomas in upcountry Alvania-more-far where he's a landowner and his mother and 5 sisters will adore her ... jury's still out on dad.

Don't put your daughter in a Balkan's bed, Mrs Worthington. Ach! Too late.

I'm a man of simple tastes where contentment's concerned. Wasn't always this way but I've come to accept my limitations.

Bed early and sober last night ~ huge head-start, that is.

Rose when I woke - no need check the alarm clock to get bearings on the hangover. In fact, deliberately did not look at the clock but fed animaux and took a brisk walk round the property with Sam trotting beside me, his tail wagging the screws off with this unfamiliar treat.

Sarcastic bugger: once upon a time he'd sprint ahead, confident of a decent stroll. Now he trots a few feet, looks back that I'm still there, a few more feet, you still there? A few more, look back, blimey guv' this is a gruelling trek.

We reach the end of the hall and I open the door - whoa, steady on there, chief. Out the door is ... like, outside. Best rest awhile and get our bearings. No, please, after you.

There's a woman who walks her skittish dog and once complained to Kosta that our dog was a 'nuisance' and 'attacked' her Cruft-crafted pedigree hound.

One day I was cutting some bamboo, hidden from the road, and I could hear madame yelling at her pooch to behave. When she came level with the gates, in it dashed and bolted up the drive. Sam, sitting beside me, continued to sit.

So much for territorial.

She stood there shouting at it so I emerged and said she was welcome to go up and leash the creature. She looked at Sam - what about him? Yes, pathetic innit? He should be up there tearing the trespasser's throat out.

Up she went, yelling fruitlessly, down came the dog via the yucca and raced around Sam who looked bored.

Down she came, what about your dog? Sam sat there, looked up at me,

"Am I missing something here?"

This morning madame jerked past, tugged this way and that. Sam barked and I told him to sit which he did.

Extra biccies when we got back.

Brek was divine - 0805 per the cuisine cloche - two expertly scrambleds, sausages, tomatoes, lashings of Diellas bacon, radio on Beeb3, jug of my fave real coffee that I never feel like making with mater making her own yoghurt mix and shattering the hopes of the day with mumbles about the garden.

"Not while I'm eating, mum!"

First hurdle of the day: skirt the computer sans succumbing. Nae prob, I just strode past and took up the Ovation and played a manly C.

"New song! Verse 1, steady beat."

I could feel the instrument shudder - wazzup? A major chord? Jes' like that? Where's the wimpo weeping minor? The sighs as tremulous right hand pluck, 'no use, not in the mood.' What is going on? The laptop coughs discreetly - ahem, are we forgetting someone? Alt-shift-cold turkey?

My dear departed friend Elleston Trevor, aka Adam Hall of the Quiller canon, had a marvelous phrase: whenever his hero was faced with some physical difficulty - clinging to the underside of a car going thru a checkpoint, his grip loosening, he'd refer contemptuously to the 'sniveling organism' waah, can't hang on, I'm going to let go, too hard, this'll ruin my nail polish.

'My hand is a steel claw' Q tells himself, 'it is fixed forever to this axle bar'.

Mewl mewl from the 'puter, 'you know u want me.'

My fretboard fumblings are going nowhere. The strings are whining 'not getting anything, no inspiration, too early, wot u going to sing about anyway?'

I fix the capo on the 5th - ooh! - and drum a crisp rasgueado across the sound-hole.

Too early, no inspiration, not usual time to strum, Muse still abed in the 7 sleapers ... any more excuses?

Good! Now we begin. 0900 minus 5. Gives us 30 minutes good composing time.

Dead silence from the moaning minnies. Yes, massa.

0945: 45 minute workout, punish the calves - skinny wretches - the dark grey Pilates laggie band for shoulders and biceps, back to calves. Sloow stretching - keep me balanced! You 'orrible muscles, pathetic, you are. One more time ... not so fast ... work it, hurt it.

Shower, fresh clothes and pack for the drive - a stack of CDs that I never reach for because KYMA is so good this morning I never want to change the channel.

To town, first stop post office to claim that copy of Begat I ordered. Up to counter, wrong ticket, I must get one for a letter. I tell her it is not a letter.

'Please take ticket'.

I take. Numero #684 and theyre calling 320.

I sit and read my paper.

Finally! She gets the package, a jiffy bag from mum's pal in London. 'But this is not a letter - I have received many themata of this kind.' Next!

I was told there was a general strike but the town buzzes. I return to car and KYMA is still good. I open the package - a silk scarf of no value.

"Marjorie, I didnt want you to be without this over the holidays"

There must be a dedicated mezzanine in Chateau Dante for those who mail useless stuff that makes one wait for nowt.

But I am ahead of the day and my stomach muscles are taut. I drive off to buy a teflon-free pan, of which there are none in any emporium, but i get to chat up my favorite serveuses.

An advert comes on the radio of a rich Santa Clausy 'ho ho ho ... chronia pollAAHH!

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!

I am doing a decent speed down Solari and it sounds as if the knocking is on the car roof. By the pubes of Perianda! For a nano-second I think it is a biker cop hammering on me to pull over. Or some joker clinging to the car - honestly, they should test these sounds before they launch them.

Almost home, I decide to check the DVD store for anything new. On my left is someone who is driving aggressively close as if I have made some driving faux pas. Very close and if we weren't both in control of our vehicles it would be inviting an accident.

They are young and aggressive and the passenger is glaring and gesticulating. We stop at the lights opposite Spiti Prifti and chummy is revving. I rev back and ignore them.

We take off and the other car is very close, as if trying to push me to the far side of the road.

300 metres after the lights, there is a side road to the DVD store and a butcher. The divide is marked by a metal post and raised island. The lorry ahead of me blocks my hassler's view and I make tentative moves as if being bullied to the side of the road. I leave it til the last second to veer right and to my disappointment see only confusion in the mirror instead of the bucking pile-up I'd been trying to lure him into.

There is nothing in the store and I am glad because the couch is not part of the day.

I get home and there is Sam wagging. I walk off to do another tour and am alone for a whole 40 seconds as he waits by the kitchen door and then realises I am not there but actually walking out n about. In fact, the cats are there scampering ahead.

I dive in via my bedroom door and leave the house sealed.

By the time I have reached the sitting room, Louki is there clawing to get in.

Also clawing is the Sniveler -

'Successful morning! God we feel like a drink'

(and we do).

I walk down to the bedroom and retrieve the Pilates band. My fave stretcher is to hold it out in front of me and very slowly do 3 circuits of 15 expansions. Then I hold it 45 degs up and do another 45, feeling the burn.

The Organism is not happy. I still want a drink and I know what I want.

The Devil has taken me up the mountain and showed me the vin blanc and cassis. Stretch burn pull.

The computer is still unopened.

Luverly drink, the sniveler whispers; all afternoon ahead, mum not here, who would know?

Face-off time. I pull up my T-shirt - see this? Not 6-pack yet but siga siga.

Dip down for 10 knee bends. See that? Pathetic, I used to tweak circuits of 30.

Think I'm going to spoil that now?

A Cee-lo moment: Forget you!

I see the cigs and toss them across the room,

"And forget you, too!"

Bastards.

Happy happy day.