Wednesday 17^th August

Wake in a cold sweat and state of total panic. Can't see a thing and there is something covering my face and I can't breathe! Jump out of bed and blindly circle the room, tripping over yesterday's clothes and several plugs. Christ the fucking pain! I frantically tear at whatever is over my head, repeatedly gagging on cotton fibres and what I hope is my own hair. Still running, I plough straight through the open door of the en suite, greeting the bath with my shins. What the..........

Woke again several hours later cold and alone, in an inch of water, with a pillow case over my head. I hobbled to the bed to survey the damage. Severely bruised shins, a third eye on my forehead, and stigmata like wounds to both feet. Hell hath no fury like an upturned plug in the dark. One painful shower, four humble Paracetamol later and I'm beginning to come round. The sun was just rising over the rooftops as I poured my first cup of coffee and pondered the whereabouts of the menacing letter. Somewhere on the other side of the Liffey, Bert is curled up in bed, safe, warm and sleeping like a baby. The prick.

I get to work early, determined to have a substantial discussion with Bert regarding our recent pursuits. Before I can utter a single word, Bert places a small present in my hand, haphazardly wrapped in an old sheet of brown paper.

The note attached read:

You'll not bend over

With this pressie.

Unless you want,

Ya great big Lezzie!

Intrigued, I tear off the wrapping, and stare at the simple but loaded gift nestled in my palm. Soap on a rope. Thanks Bert. I was worried before, but with soap on a rope on my side I am now fairly certain I can cope with my upcoming prison sentence. The real let down I quickly come to realise is that though it may prove useful in a shower situation, it is absolutely no good to me back in my cell. The soap itself is alright, but there isn't nearly enough rope to hang myself. About as useful in prison as a pair of slip on shoes. Intending to return the favour, I wonder if I can bring myself to buy a butt plug from Ann Summers. I could order it online but I suspect it would show up on my bank statement as www.yousickbitch.com. Facing my bank manager after that would just be plain old embarrassing.

Made a quick trip to Ann Summers on my lunch break and spent ten minutes perusing the most chilling array of products legally available to man. While the purpose of some of the merchandise was blatantly obvious, others were a complete mystery to me. Regrettably, I made my confusion evident, attracting the attention of a young sales clerk. He descended upon me before I got the chance to return the chocolate penis moulds and offending butt plug to their rightful places. In a bout of panic, I dropped the illicit paraphernalia, made a hasty retreat and set off in search of the nearest off licence. A wine stopper would have to do. Back at work, I offered Bert my heart felt gift with a similar note attached:

If an inmate rates

Your ugly mug,

Just make good use

Of this butt plug.

It's not Yeats but Bert enjoyed it. Headed home in a taxi as my stigmata was really starting to ache. Got back to find a note pinned to my door, from George, the building handyman, and all round pain in the ass.

“The apartment above yours will no longer be vacant as of tomorrow. So please keep your usual racket to a minimum. Tearing around your apartment at 3am will not be tolerated. George.”

Great, I'm going to have to come up with a plausible excuse for last night's antics, and I don't think “I had a pillow case over my head” is going to cut it.