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| Diary of a Wannabe. Part 3 | |
| By wltshr | ||||||||||||||||
| 07 June 2007 | ||||||||||||||||
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At last. The new instalment. (Does anyone prefer the new title?) Such a squealer! She sounded like a cross between a small pig and a Swiss yodeling competition. I'm sure sometimes she could only be heard by dogs and passing bats. Great fun and so exciting while she lasted but I must do something about the noise. I don’t want some nosey rambler down the lane to hear something he shouldn’t. I quite like it here. It’s good to have a place that works. Loft insulation ought to soundproof it but it might make it too hot and uncomfortable. I do like to be comfy. I shall have to do some research. This is such a lark and so easy. If I'd known it would be this easy and so much fun I'd have started ages ago. I really don't know why I didn't. It's strange. I'm sure everyone wonders, sometimes, what it feels like to kill somebody. They probably just don't have the strength of conviction, or the brains, to see it though. Well, let me tell you, it feels great! So great, in fact, you can't help wanting to do it over and over. Funny really, the killing bit's an anti climax. (You'd have to be really sick to climax then. Ha, ha). No. It's what comes before that gets you. The selection. The planning. The.... (Ha! Nearly said "The Execution") But no, it's the bit after the planning, and the capture, and way before the execution that I like most. That's the climax for me. (And more than once!) They just haven’t got a clue. The telly, the newspapers and the police; they’re all as dumb as a bag of spanners. Not a clue. It was a bloody waste of time spending so long thinking out a theme when they can’t put two and two together. First off, a lesbian into S&M called Georgina. Dead easy she was: off t’internet, as Peter Kay would say. When she heard about my little playroom and the poor defenceless lamb I told her I was holding there. (Ooh! You’re such a fibber!) She couldn’t wait to come visit for the weekend. A bit backward in coming forwards until I told her I only wanted to watch, and then she was dead keen. Hee, hee. Followed closely by young Polly from the café. Do you like horses? Do you ride? So easy. “My Mum will worry that I don’t really know you.” “ She sounds a very sensible woman. Don’t worry, I’m sure your Mum knows loads of people with horses you can learn to ride on!” “Well, I could tell her I’m going to the pictures with Sally. What do you think?” “If you’re sure. I’ll make sure you get back in plenty of time. Oh, do you think Sally would like to come too?” She didn’t want Sally to come. (Wouldn’t it have been just perfect if her friend had been called Sukie?) So Sally didn’t come. I’m fairly sure Polly didn’t. But I did. I wonder if I should have taken trophies? Jack the Ripper and Ed Gein did. How many movies have been based on those two? Fred West did, and he was probably the most successful in Britain. You can’t count Shipman. He was playing a different game altogether. I wonder what Fred did with all the fingers and toes. He must have had something in his head; apart from that metal plate, of course. There was plenty of room; he was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer. It doesn’t matter about trophies. They never come to light until you’ve been caught or the bodies have been found, and I’ve no intention of either of those happening. That well is deeper than I thought. I’d nearly counted to three hippopotamuses before Georgina went crump. Funny noise. Still, the sound Polly made when she hit bottom was a bit different. I wonder if she did? Hit bottom, I mean, what with Georgina waiting for her. Come on guys. It’s not difficult. It’s just Nursery Rhymes. Surely even you can spot that. And you’d better come up with a good nickname. I’m really looking forward to watching the blubby Mum appeals on telly. It’s the Dads I feel sorry for. Sitting next to the missus with the whole world convinced that Dad did it. Not this time, he didn’t! Oh well. Let’s go get the next one.
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