Things can only get better-

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Mr Jones rhubarb looks to be doing mighty fine at number 99.

Look¦I know¦

My cat will always be sick on the most inappropriate things.
I know nymphomaniacs will always turn me away.
And my toast will always fall to the floor butter side down.
And if I fell in a barrel of tits, I'd come up sucking my thumb.
Oh and I will never get my deserved pay raise.
'But Things can only get better.'

Well that's what they say anyway.

Today though in the Loo by the cubicles, I was sadly unable to take up
the invitation from a Medallion Urang Utang man¦ I think from somewhere
horrible like Bolton.

He strolled in, kaleidoscope shirt open to an ample navel, skin the
colour of red weathered brick, a bouffant of grey tinged black hair
from a seventies mod rocker convention. He was whistling a tuneless
misdirected version of 'Is this the way to Amarillo?'

As my eyes adjusted to this searing visual cacophony of his attire, he
looked me directly, unabashed in the eye.

'Shall we cross swords?' He said chuckling eagerly, waggling his
flaccid pythonesque manhood in my direction. It was then I noticed the
aroma of stale booze on his breath.

'Oh! Good God!' I said somewhat stunned by this double combination,
'Now that is quite a something¦no you don't get many of those¦erm..
Cross swords?' I said trying to be civil.

But his eyes were no longer looking directly at mine¦he was checking
out my¦ahem¦ own size¦erm¦ i think all men do this kind of thing by the
way.

'Oh dear no!' He said, 'Oh my! But yours is neither here nor there,' he
was equally stunned by my own under whelming appendage. 'It's a bit
like a neglected Walnut Whip. WE certainly won't be crossing swords
today.' He said cruelly smaning away.

'Walnut Whip! Oh come on!' I said defiantly, hurt even, 'yours is
obviously the result of some abnormal swelling, experiment or
infection.' I said.

And do you know in my head my logical side was saying, 'Are you really
having this conversation?'

'OOOO! No!' He said. 'Mine's ok¦it's yours my friend, I mean mine
certainly doesn't need a magnifying glass for detection.' This nodded
remark was in my todgers direction, which I thought was rather tart for
someone I'd only just met.

'Oh!' I said. Bloody northerners are always so blunt and to the
point¦not always a good thing I say. And what the hell is it with big
dicks anyway?

'But never fear, I hear there are a series of extended operations that
offer erm¦ quite significant extensions.' He said.

'Good grief! A series? Really? What do you mean a series?' I said,
silently cursing myself under my breath, for showing unintended
interest.

'Yes, all apparently very long and very painful too!' He said
sympathetically, ' but rather you than me of course¦hey though never
mind whatever happens things will get better you'll see.'

'Indeed, yes that might be so, but forgive me; I'll pass on some
lunatic sadist surgeon massacring my dick thank you very much. And i'll
believe the rest when I see it.' I said.

And once again the logical side of my brain questioned, 'Are you really
having this conversation?'

'OH!' He said, 'Suit yourself then... be a needle dick, was just
passing on friendly advice is all.'

'Well! Really! Was there any need for that?' I said.

And with that we returned huffily to the business in hand and continued
with our pee, he rather showily I thought(perhaps this was even
jealously) did it with his hands free.

But all the while I thought what kind of masochist man would go through
the horror of penile extension? It made me shudder and oh fuck it I wet
my leg.

So when do these 'things,' get better?

Mr Jones's rhubarb has grown quite remarkably in such a short space of
time, and looks awfully tall¦for¦erm¦ rhubarb.

My cat has just decided to be sick in the best possible place, in
amongst a pile of tangled PC, DVD, console and TV cables.
My unwanted brother's short temporary return here to his family home,
has now lasted six months.
My neighbour has bought a four-legged Mike Tyson and called the
slobbering mutt Chloe.

So although I'm still optimistic, things do appear to be a little slow
in heading for the up and up.

At work the other day, during my appraisal I helped my appraiser spell
and understand the definition of the words sycophantic, duplicitous,
nepotistic and erm¦erkomontastic.

'Ah!' He said pleased that he'd increased his vocabulary. 'These are
bloody good words, words that I can now use in every day conversation,
er-ko-mon-tas-tic, er-ko-mon-tas-tic.' He pronounced proudly.

'Yes? Well that's very¦ very good,' I said doubtfully.

'But what does it mean?' He said

'Oh! Inventive, intuitive, imaginative.' I said.

'Ah! My boss will be pleased.' He said.

'Yes indeed. Ever heard of a book called a dictionary?' I said.

'Good Read is it?' He said.

'Can't put it down.' I said.

'Really! It's that good?' He said.

'Yes.' I said.

'But,' he said, and there is always a 'but,' somewhere isn't there?
'The fact that the first three words I've just mentioned, appear in
your comments on your appraisal form¦suggest you have issues with your
peers.' He said.

'Oh! Do they?' I said.

'Yes they do¦so could I suggest if you showed a bit more respect and a
little less negativity towards them¦things might possibly get a little
better?' He said.

'Respect and less negativity to whom?' I said.

'Why your peers of course!' He said

'Oh, and who might they be?' I said.

'I beg your pardon?' He said.

'Joke!' I said.

'Joke?' He said.

'Sarcasm,' I said.

'Sarcasm?' He said.

'Ah! I see!' I said. 'S¦A¦R¦'

And things¦erm¦ surprisingly didn't seem to get that much better.

Back home¦

Another day has nearly ended; Chloe the neighbour's four-legged Mike
Tyson has made it clear she has her eye on me for evil intentions. She
growls up at me from her garden as I look down from my bedroom
window.

Tomorrow we will have more rain probably.
My cat has been sick on a favourite shirt.
Mr Mandrel from across the road, who is always very drunk, has just
played the Smurf song full blast, for the fifteenth time in a row on
his stereo.
And I'm despondent, because I'll never be able to cross swords in the
men's toilets.

But outside my bedroom window, to my disbelief, I can see that Mr
Jones's phenomenally huge seven-foot high stalks of rhubarb have
uprooted by themselves and began to attack and decapitate the
neighbours.

For them sadly things will definitely not get better.

Chloe with the enthusiasm of youth and a bravery that comes with the
lack of wisdom, has decided to take on one of the carnivore stalks and
is coming off a rather poor second best.
My brother is screaming in the air, being swung by the leg by another
of the things.
Mr Mandrel has invited two others in for drinks¦OOO! And there's his
first scream.
And downstairs¦erm¦for reasons only known to herself, my
seventy-year-old mother has decided to make custard.

And with this in mind, and I think because I have a weird sense of
humour, things like they say¦ again I think for me anyway have just got
better.