The Problems of Writing a Modern Diary

So here we are again another day in the life of the diary of Rob Z Tobor which has been ticking along now since 15^th August 2010 (the diary not me). I know it’s a long long long time and if you have been reading it for all that time you will probably say it seems much much longer, as you plough through page after page after page of stuff.

Of course diaries are not what they were back in the old days when Samuel Pepys could write about things such as Plague, pestilence, the burning down of London, royals being beheaded. Chaps discovering places such as America or the fabled North West Passage around the Isle of White or small islands full of unknown tribes to wipe-out and steal all their stuff such as the Isle of White.

These days we are left with Mr Jones running about naked attempting to communicate with Aliens in the Woods, Zombies being attacked by little old ladies for sitting on the wrong seat on the bus, Androids and Vampires playing football as they hunt for The Holy Grail. A goat getting catapulted into the local supermarket on a regular basis, a faulty Weather Machine and a grumpy Ghost Writer. Quite frankly it is no wonder the very nice Steven Spielberg has no interest in making the film of the book of the blog diary of Rob Z Tobor.

So I feel I need to find things more suitable to write about that will make Mr Spielberg sit up and take notice, something where he will say . . . . . Hang ON I haven’t done a film about that before. . . . .

So what did I do today . . . I cut grass . . . . DAMN that’s not a good start is it, although some of it was quite long grass?  

Mr Jones is a bit disappointed today as it turns out the Lizard Men of Titan are in fact Lizards and their spacecraft an old copper hot water tank, (still an easy mistake to make).

The Ghost Writers Birthday and the Suburban Grass Lizard

Today was the sixtieth birthday of the Ghost Writer so now he is well and truly old; well he is compared with me, the young eccentric of cyberspace.  To celebrate we are off to a hen night which sounds a bit odd as this is not normal, however all will become clear over the next few days or so (or possibly not). However there is one technical hitch to the hen night and that is the bride on hearing that we are both turning up said O GOD NO and has locked herself in the toilet for the night. So now it is a henless night, neither of us have been to a henless night either.

Mr Kris got the Ghost Writer a Robot that can tell the time, which is useful as time is all over the place at present. And Miss Fionaski the Famous Russian Spy gave the Ghost Writer bacon soap, he was dead pleased at first until he tried to eat it and then he started to foam at the mouth and run about waving his arms about like an IDIOT.  Hardly a dignified way for a chap who is sixty to behave first thing in the morning, even if he is away with the fairies.

I decided to give the Ghost Writer a rare Suburban Grass Lizard which was thought to be extinct until one was found a year or two ago in suburbia and kept at the London Zoo, well it was until it escaped and was never seen again. Luckily I know a man who knows a man who said he had one, apparently he was expecting a parrot but things happened. Anyway the Suburban Grass Lizard is very placid well it was until it saw someone foaming at the mouth and flapping their arms about like a seagull (one of its favourite foods).  And then when it got a strong smell of bacon (another of its favourite foods) it was more that it could resist and so it sort of chewed a bit of the Ghost Writers leg.

The Ghost Writer sulked then but that is part of being old, although he got the old strimmer to work first time so Well Impressive.

OK I am off now we have a Henless Night to go too…….

Oooooooo yes Google sort of made an error and I have nicked the Ghost Writers birthday in cyberspace but he does not know yet. . . . . .HAH HAHHAHAHH HAH HAhha ha hah hah hah ahhah ah hha ha ha ha ha ha . . . . . . I think . . . . AH DAMN.