What a day...!

What a bloody day!

First the wife announces she`s off to Bath "to have a wander..." -- which is code for "Russell & Bromley have got a shoe sale on." Then after she`s gone I find a list of jobs she `requires` me to do whilst she`s out: clean the bathroom; put the wheelie bin out; hoover the entire house; cut the grass; do my brain-memory exercises. I wasn`t too chuffed to be honest.

So, I grab the Jif and the limescale remover, the J-Cloths and the Mr Sheen and head up stairs.

Thump! Thump! Thump! on the front door. I look out the landing window and there`s a group of heavies out there and a stretched limo on the drive. What now...?!

I go down, open the door and who is it stood there with a big grin on his face...? Bloody Colonel Gaddafi. "Why can`t you ring the bell like everyone else?" I say. "Why do you always have to bash on the door with your fist...?"

"Ohh.. Lighten up!" he retorts, punching me on the arm. "You letting me in or what...?"

""You can come in but I`m not having that lot traipsing round the place," I say, indicating the bodyguards." I`ve got to hoover later so I don`t want them making a worse mess of the place than it`s already in."

I put the kettle on and he plonks himself down. He hasn`t popped in for weeks but makes himself at home straight away. "Got any ginger nuts?"

"You know where they are. Get `em yourself." He chuckles and grabs the biscuit barrel. "Anyway," I say,"I thought you`d have enough on your plate without bothering me unannounced." I emphasise this to make a point. I had told him last time to at least ring before he turns up. My missus is not too keen on old Muammar. Thinks he`s a bit of a despot. Which he is, I suppose, but he`s also a bit of a lad when you can get him off the subject of oil billions and camel racing. And he`s a bit of a ladies` man. Last time he came he brought his `nurse`! I couldn`t take my eyes of her and got a caustic tongue-lashing from the missus later.

The kettle boiled. He had to have his favourite US Dollar mug, of course. I reached for the biscuits; he grabbed the last one. He grinned and gave me another boys-will-be-boys punch.

Then I put my foot right in it. "How you getting on with those rebels...?"

He actually growled like the proverbial sore-headed hairy bear. "There are no rebels in Libya! My people all love me! There are some trouble-makers who`ve infiltrated our borders. I will crush them -- " and to make his point he smashes his fist down on his biscuit. Crumbs fly all over the place.

"Pack it in, Muammar!" I yell. "I`ve got to get this place clean before `she` comes home."

He calms down. He finishes his tea. "Gotta go. Places to go. People to see." He shouts for one of his heavies. The man-mountain ambles in. "Take a picture of me and my little old English friend," he commands.

The heavie takes a snap with what appears to be a gold-plated pocket camera. Gaddafi grins again -- but I`ve had enough.

He bear-hugs me at the door and without another word he`s gone, whisked away in his limo.

I trudge up the stairs to the bathroom. I hope today improves, but I`ve a feeling it won`t. The wife will want to know exactly what I`ve been doing while she was out. I daren`t tell her...

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