Gilliflowers by Gillibran Brown

dinner party.
    Well dear diary I must leave you. Dick is complaining about me spending too much time with you. He’s demanding my presence in the lounge and on the couch. I think he fancies a game of sexy Cluedo and I’m the body he has foul play plans for. I suspect I’m about to be bludgeoned to death in the lounge with a trouser truncheon.
    Suits me. I’m looking forward to having him all to myself in bed tonight.

Saturday 19th January 2008
    I was disappointed to wake up this morning and find we were surrounded by some rather fine weather. The sun was bright and if not warm then at least not cold. It smiled down benevolently, highlighting the pale green shoots of various flower bulbs pushing their way above ground, as if spring were proudly saying, ‘look, I’m on my way to banish winter.’ Far from being pleased I felt like complaining to the met office for failing to divvy up the promised rain and gales. Why? Because, as Dick said when I groused to him over fresh breakfast coffee and croissants, I’m a selfish possessive little bastard that’s why.
    If it had been raining heavily enough to float an ark and blowing a force nine gale, as promised, he wouldn’t have headed off to the golf course to smack little white balls with a long hard pole. I didn’t see why he couldn’t stay home and smack my balls with his pole.
    His solution was to suggest I caddy for him, he’d love to have me alongside. I declined saying I’d rather perform a sex change op on myself using a pair of rusty shears. He is hell to caddy for, a ruthless slave driver who makes Shane look like a little pink poodle in comparison. Honest, I’m not kidding. Dick undergoes a terrible transformation once he gets on the green with a golf club in his hand. He’s a fucking demon. All gentleness vanishes and even his hair gets harder. He’s Jekyll and Hide, and it’s usually my hide that suffers. So no, this houseboy refuses point blank to caddy for Daddy.
    It’s coming up to half past noon so I’d better make a move. Dick will be back from conquering the golf course and expecting lunch any time soon and I’ve got to make a start on preparations for dinner this evening. I’m trying a new recipe, partridge with Moroccan spices and roast vegetables, it sounds nice, but is a bit finicky to prepare. Dick and Shane personally killed the birds I’ll be using on the last shoot they went on with Leo, so I suppose you can’t get more organic and free range than that.
    At least the poor things had a relatively good life before they were shot. I’ve also got flowers to buy and arrange for the dinner table. If I were straight I’d be starting to worry I might be gay, what with the cooking and flower arranging.

Tuesday 22ndJanuary 2008
    I had the oddest experience last night, really, I’m not kidding it was very, very queer. I was reading my Booky Wook in bed when who should stride into the bedroom but Aragorn from LOTR’s. I stared in dumbstruck silence as he withdrew his magnificent sword and roared the order “I BID YOU STAND MEN OF THE
    WEST!” I didn’t need to be bidden twice not with him dripping sexy sweat and pheromones all over the bedroom rug. He could be Lord of my ring any day of the week, even if he did have filthy fingernails. Consequently I stood so hard and so fast I was in danger of piercing my navel with my own particular sword.
    We were really getting it on, he’s a fabulous kisser is Viggo, when two men suddenly charged into the bedroom claiming to be magistrates. They bellowed I was under arrest for being a Molly. To my horror it was true. I was a Molly boy dressed in an elaborate frock, wig and heavy makeup. I was gobsmacked. When the hell had I turned into an eighteenth century transvestite and where the hell had Aragorn disappeared to? I bet he wouldn’t have abandoned his lady elf as fast as he abandoned this fairy prince. Next thing I know there’s a rope around my neck and I’m in the process of being hung for