Mrs Phillips in room seven
I PRESSED that little button at least an hour ago.
Where have you been? Smoking one of your bongo cigarettes outside the kitchen and talking about your knob-ring, I shouldnt be surprised. Anyway, I need my blankets tucking in, not that you care.
Youre probably not even English. I suspect you only came here so you can marry your boyfriend and then be handed a nice English baby by some bloody social worker. And then theyll give you a thousand pounds a month to turn it into a whoopsie.
Whats for dinner tonight? Fish? Is it English? WAS IT CAUGHT IN ENGLAND? Im not being fobbed off with Spanish haddock, Ill tell you that.
Used to be there was only English fish in the shops. My friends daughter said she was in Tesco and they had fish from China! What are they doing having fish from China in Tesco?
Move the telly round a bit, I can’t see it properly. Now wheres my Radio Times?
Would you look at this: BBC2, nine oclock, The Fisters. A three part minidrama about Soho in the early 1970s when the age of sexual liberation was in full swing. I shall watch that and then write a letter with my good pen. The Fisters, indeed.
This tea tastes funny. Did your mother never teach you how to make a decent cup of tea? Did you even have a mother, or was she just some trollop who left you outside the town hall and then went back to her drunken intercourse with a Hungarian raspberry picker?
Oh, Im starting to feel a bit woozy now. Cant keep my eyes open. Oh dear. Think I better just lie down.
Do try not to fiddle with me while Im asleep. Wouldnt put it past you… you bloody weirdo….