Friday 29th August.

Earlier this evening I decided to climb inside my wardrobe.
It's quite a small wardrobe, but I thought I'd just double check to make sure there wasn't a mystical gateway at the back of it.
I was vaguely hoping I'd rematerialise in a wintery world consisting of talking lions, friendly dwarves and a strange dark-haired woman offering to feed me Turkish delight and caramelised Smarties with a plastic fork.
So you can imagine the almost heart-stopping amazement I felt, when instead all I found were some clothes, plus a rather nice pair of slacks ( not technically an item of clothing, more a cry for help ) and a small spider. But that amazement was nothing compared to the unprecedented incredulity I experienced when the wardrobe, with myself still cramped inside, toppled and crashed to the floor.
Luckily I managed to break the fall with my left hand.
Not so luckily I now have three broken fingers on my left hand..... I don't mean I have three broken fingers as well as my usual five fingers.... because that would just be stupid. I mean, for a start, where would I have got them from? Even Tesco have discontinued their three-packs of broken human fingers. No, what I mean is, three of my five fingers are broken.
They must be mine, and can't be anybody else's because no-one else was in the room at the time.

So now I sit here, having to type this inaugural diary entry with one hand. My apologies for this, because of course this means it will now take you twice as long to read it .................. No hang on a minute, I've got that wrong haven't I? I suppose it would still take you the same amount of time to read this, unless coincidentally at the same time that I fell out of the wardrobe, you managed to lose an eye somehow.

I'm waffling.
I suppose the rather silly attempt to find a fresh new world behind my Polo tops, was born out of a weariness of the world I currently live in.
An act of desperation? Maybe.
An act of supreme optimism? Er, yes.
When I say weariness of the world I live in, I don't so much mean the wider world. I'm sure there are one or two nice places... somewhere.
( I've heard there's quite a nice village in Mauritania for instance, although my source on this is not particularly reliable. Roger Flappington from the flat upstairs to be exact, and I've seen him have panic attacks catching a bus to Reigate. But more on him later. )
It is more a bemusement of my immediate surroundings, and more to the point, the homo-sapiens that seem to besmirch them.
It is their mannerisms, their behaviour, the things they say and do that leaves me with the choice of either laughing... or wanting to take up sword swallowing without learning how to relax the muscles of the esophagus.
It is also the tracksuits they wear and the amount of chips they eat.

I am what you would call a Misanthropist, albeit a relatively mild one. I am of the non-violent type.
I could never bring myself to physically harm other people. I just don't bleeding well like them very much, that's all.
However, even as a mild Misanthropist, I have come to realise that I need an outlet for my frustrations, a medium through which I can offload the various human peculiarities that really get on my ti...... on my um, on my pectorals. Because unfortunately, it is neither wise nor practical these days to walk through your local high street, pointing at different people and saying ; " I don't like you, and I don't like you, I definately don't like you, and as for you!.... ".
It just isn't the done thing, is it?

So I have decided to record my spleen-venting in the form of diary entries, seeing as lots of people use diaries as a way of recording their thoughts, emotions and activities.
But instead of a 'met Sue for lunch in the Mall, took the dog to the vets, went to my aerobics class...' type of diary, think of it more as a ' laughed at the postman when he tripped and scattered a bag of letters across the pavement, then told the woman next door to SHUT UP! ' type of diary.