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 sniggering 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