Week 1

Monday February 2nd
I don’t know why I’m doing this, I really don’t. I’ve never needed a diary before and I don’t need one now. Doctor Malloy is talking out of his arse. It won’t help, it can’t help and it isn’t helping. I’ll give a try because I said I would, but I don’t see the point in it.

I fired Peter today because I found him stealing from the Slush Fund. He smelt quite nice as he burnt. In the afternoon I did the tax returns and had a biscuit. It took ages to get home on the Tube. Sandra made cheese on toast for tea, then we sat and watched Eastenders. I may have another gin before I go to bed.

Tuesday February 3rd
I showed Dr Malloy yesterday’s diary entry and he said it wasn’t good enough. He liked the bit about not wanting to do it, but he said the rest was just filler. He says he wants my feelings in here, not just a list of things I did. Here you go Doctor: I HATE DIARIES! They’re intrusive and they make me feel uncomfortable. What if someone else reads this? What if someone else finds out how I’m feeling? It doesn’t feel right, putting all my secrets out in the open. Secrets are meant to be secret, that’s why they’re secrets. If I’m going to have to put my feelings in here then I’m going to get a wall safe to put it in, just in case. I’m pretty sure that Sandra wouldn’t look in here if I told her not to (she knows what happened to her brother when he crossed me) but I can’t be sure. So tomorrow I buy a safe.

I did the advert for Peter’s replacement today, and was quite proud of the wording: “General Assistant needed to work in busy (and very hot) office. Murderers accepted, but thieves need not apply. Must be willing to work long hours when required without moaning like a bitch. Competitive salary with benefits.” Sandra says I shouldn’t have put ‘bitch’ in there, but what does she know. She’s only down here because she ran over that vicar, so she doesn’t understand the ethos yet. She will though, given time.

After work I played golf with that idiot from Accounts. I can’t even remember his name now. He’s the one with the hornrimmed glasses who thinks he looks like Jeffrey Dahmer, but doesn’t. I won of course, but not as easily as I usually do. Probably just tired – I have been working a lot lately. Maybe I need a holiday. I can’t do that until I’ve got that new assistant settled in though, and that could be months. I’m starting to regret firing Peter. I should have just chopped his hands off instead, then kept him on. His typing wouldn’t have been as good, but he could’ve still made the tea.

Wednesday February 4th
I’m still not seeing the point of this. It’s not making me feel any better.

The hot water broke this morning, right in the middle of my shower. One minute lovely, the next freezing my balls off. I was a little annoyed, to say the least. It’s not as if we’re in the middle of the Arctic for Christ’s sake – this is Hell! The whole damn place is built of fire, brimstone and molten lava! Surely it’s impossible NOT to get hot water! I called the water people and the man was very apologetic, but said that there was nothing they could do. Blamed it on “excessive demand in a peak period” and said I’d just have to have a shower later instead. I don’t think he realised who I was at first, but he began to see the light when I translocated him to my bathroom and shoved his head down the toilet. And he’d definitely caught on by the time I set fire to his hair and stuffed it up his nose. I felt a lot better once I’d got rid of him. Calmer, and better equipped to face the day. If I’m honest, I felt much happier on my way to work than I normally do, despite the lack of shower. Maybe I should torture someone every morning, if it makes me feel that good. It’s certainly a thought. I’ll talk to Doctor Malloy about it tomorrow. Maybe I’ve made a breakthrough! I hope so because I’m very sick of this diary writing already, and this is only day 3. I bought a safe today. Whoopdedoo.

Thursday February 5th
Doctor Malloy didn’t like the idea of me torturing people every day. He said the whole point of the therapy was to reduce my anger issues, not give in to them. IT’S NOT BLOODY WORKING IS IT??! I hate this diary writing and I hate him, the stuck up little git. (And I know you’re going to read this Doctor, and I don’t care. You are a stuck up little git and I don’t like you. You’re lucky you’re covered by the Physicians Indemnity or you’d be away with Peter and the man from the water board.) He said I should try something different, like yoga or meditation. Idiot. I’m Satan, High Lord of Hell, Prince of Darkness, King of the Unholy, The Fiery Fuhrer, He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, The Devil, Beelzebub and Grand Wizard of the Satanic Lodge Of Masons. I am not the sort of man who does yoga. I’m far too angry to write any more today. I’m off for a kebab.

Friday February 6th
I’ve calmed down a bit today. Had a nice breakfast with Sandra, and then none of my Tubes were late on the way to work, so I was quite relaxed by the time I got in. We’ve started to have a few replies to the job advert, and some of them are laughable, frankly. Here are a few quotes. “I would like to be your personal assistant because I feel it would be fulfilling and rewarding, and offer me a sense of job satisfaction. I have long admired your methods.” (That one got forwarded to the Elimination Department – I won’t have suck-ups in Hell, they make me feel sick). “I’ve tried rape and pillage and they were fun, but now I want to settle down and work nine-to-five and start a family” (No chance – you’d bore me to death in an hour). “My mum worked for you in 1765, and she always said we’d get on well together” (I remember your mum, and she made the worst tea in history. You’re staying on the dole for now sonny). There were a few good ones too though. Some bloke who was an assistant to General Pinochet and says he hates mobile-phone adverts, which is always a good sign. And a woman who was plagued by God a millennia ago, and has been vomiting frogs ever since. She says she can’t get a job for love nor money – funny that. I don’t know if she can type or not, but it would be fun to get her just so I can laugh at the frogs all day. The closing date is next Monday, so we’ll see what else comes in before then.

Saturday February 7th
I like Saturdays! No bloody office, and no bloody tubes. I played Golf this morning with Adolf, and he made it all the way to the 14th hole before cracking up, which is a big improvement. Normally he’s fine until he sees the first bunker, but then goes all mental and starts raving about suicide pills and dead Alsatians and stuff. He still hasn’t forgiven the Russians for that. It’s odd when you think about it. Rommell, Von Staufenburg, Churchill… they all tried to kill him and he doesn’t give a damn anymore, he’s forgiven them all. But mention the Russians and a dead dog and he loses it! We all have our foibles I guess. He’s a nice bloke the rest of the time though, so I can put up with the odd outburst. We called it a day after the 14th and I managed to get him back to Eva in one piece, albeit a bit frothy-mouthed.

I spent the afternoon gardening. The lawn is still green thanks to the new irrigation system I put in, and the slaves are doing a good job of keeping the poison-ivy pruned, but I’m still having no luck trying to grow those damned Venus Fly Traps. It must be something to do with the soil. Ted Bundy down the road has a lovely Fly Trap border, so it can’t be the climate or the weather. I may have a word with him and see if I can get any hints. I’m not sure he’ll tell me though, as he’s probably still a bit sore with me from last years Vegetable Contest. He’s convinced I sabotaged his Marrows, which is patently untrue because I never touched them. I paid Judas to do it for me.

I best stop now because I’m off to the cinema with Sandra. I wanted to see something violent but she’s dragging me off to a chick flick. ‘Dante’s Inferno’ it’s called, and it’s all lovely red skies and fiery rivers and “ooh look at the beautiful scenery”. I think I may vomit.

Sunday February 8th
Had my Father-In-Law round for the monthly Sunday lunch. Sandra cooked Salamander and artichokes with blood sauce. It was going well until I mentioned the Mother-In-Law, and then they both started wailing and crying and the whole thing was spoiled. They’re still gutted that Amanda went Up when she died instead of joining them here. I think Sandra still blames me for not pulling strings and over-riding the verdict, but to be honest there wasn’t a lot I could’ve done. The problem with the Up people is that they tend to give people the benefit of the doubt. There has to be watertight evidence before they’ll send people Down, and even then they sometimes get all compassionate and let them off. I said to Him right at the Start of Days that the court process should be run by us not them, but he wasn’t having any of it. For an Up person he can be very stubborn. It’s all Amanda’s fault anyway so they can’t really moan. She must have KNOWN that Bill and Sandra were here – he burnt down a Cathedral and she killed a Vicar. It was a no-brainer. So if she knew that, and she wanted to be down here with them, then why didn’t she stab a nun or piss in a font or something, just to make sure? If she had then she’d be here now, instead of sitting around Up, playing harps and writing Haikus. It’s her own fault. Between you and I though (and you I guess, Doctor Malloy) I’m not really that sorry that she isn’t around. She was a bit of a moaner, by all accounts, and I can’t abide moaners. If she had come here I’d probably have ended up getting annoyed and burning her anyway. I’d rather Sandra didn’t know that though or she’d make my life a misery, so mum’s the word. So to speak.