Aside from me still trying to live down that whole talk-show fiasco, my road was all set to close up for the day, it being our Grand Prix race week an' all. Actually I felt pretty grateful everything was on lock down, 'cos it's the safest I'd felt in weeks.
Like you know, these poor frayed nerves of mine sorely needed the rest, I swear I had every intention of simply writing the day off under my duvet.
I hadn't banked on our psycho Postie.
This guy seriously needs his parole revoked, Chief Minister's brother or not. I'll bet none of his co-worker's get away with this breaking and entering lark of his. Grant you he's certainly gifted, there's not many who can fold themselves through my catflap.
He boasts he's never returned an undelivered parcel yet.
If I wake to the doorbell, I have less than thirty seconds to cover my arse before his boot hits the stair.
"Oh hullo, Mrs. Shrinkie, and what a fetching robe it is that you're wearing today," Whispering, "..though if you don't mind me saying, those legs of yours might use a little attention?"
It's just as well my face doesn't work first thing.
"And here I've come with your mail."
"What the f - what time is it?"
"Oh, early. Six. I thought it best to make the rounds before the roads seal off. Can you sign for this package for Mrs. Dishthedirt? I don't like to be waking her."
Adding fresh insult to injury, he now needs to use my loo. By the time he's done apologising for the smell, and for the broken brush down the blocked S-bend, I find I'm surprisingly wide, wide awake, and rapidly developing facial tics.
Sooooooo, being as how I'm now up and about, it dawns on me I have a few safe hours left before the roads are due to close, and as precious few people are likely to be out and around at this God-forsaken early hour, I reckon a wee drive down to the ferry port can't do much harm.. Like I say, it's sure been a while since I last dared push my head out the door, . The daily mainland newspapers get shipped over at sunrise, and I want to know if my name is still being trashed about over there.
Swapping my robe over for a coat, I stick a hat over my haystack, and nonchalantly picking at the crusted sleep matter from the corner of one eye, I discard my fluffy slippers in favour of the mock tiger-skin pumps which Bec's conveniently lost by the door (Yeah, for a skinny shrimp, she sure does have big feet).
As I arrive, the news-vendor guy is still bent over cutting the string from the paper-bales.
"Jesus, God and The Holy Virgin Mary, is that yours or the dog's legs you've come in on?"
What is this fixation with my personal grooming, today?
Hiding my exposed shins against the counter, I grab the first three available tabloids to hand, and thrust a five pound note out to the insensitive bastard.
"And maybe I can interest you in purchasing a disposable razor, too?"
I ignore the ignoramus and stick my hand out for my change, as a second person saunters into the store. As I casually glance over, I'm telling ya' folks, my heart near explodes right up through my throat, so it does. All I can say is it's a darn good job I hold possession over a very healthy bladder, that's for sure.
You'll never guess who's standing there before us? None but the very Dictator, yes, that sad, sorry skid mark on the knickers of society, it's only he himself, isn't it? The contemptible and thieving, murderous and evil Colonel sodding Gadaffi, that's all!
(That's my outraged voice, by the way.)
THE BLOOMIN' CHEEK OF THE SMELLY GIT, EH?
(That's still in my outraged voice.)
He doesn't look near as nice close-up, y'know. AND he stinks. You think he might have at least availed himself of a shower on the crossing, well assuming he blew in with the ferry, that is.
I can barely lift my jaw off the floor.
I watch as up he strides to the counter, bold as brass, dragging his wheelie-case behind, "Morning. Half an ounce of Golden Virginia tobacco, and a box of matches, please."
Now, I don't know about you, but I can't have any of that, can I? I mean, this guy's a nasty war criminal.
"Hey," I says to the Mr. Vendor-Man, "You can put that right back up on the shelf again - can't you see who this is?"
So he stares at me like an idjit.
Pointing accusingly, "Look, it's him, that Gadaffi bloke, innit?"
I'd expect better from someone so tediously observant as he is in the hairy leg department..
"Gadaffi!" shouts I, stabbing my pointy finger at the upheld front page photo in "The Sun", as I all but ram it (the paper, not my finger, that is) up his fat, spotty nose. "Him!"
"Where?" asks Gadaffi, craftily swivelling his head to gawp out the window, all innocent-like.
"Don't you give me that, I'm on to you, Sonny Boy."
"No, I not Sonny boy, what you talk about?"
Seeing he's getting a bit agitated, I urge our idjit Mr. Vendor-Guy to get a move on, and to call the police, pronto, but (eyes-skywards) does he listen? Where's the Cavalry when you need it, eh?
Gadaffi edges for the door, but, ha, no way am I about to let him escape.
Spread-eaglling (yes, I think you'll find it is a word) myself upright against the door frame, I yell at Mr. Vendor-Man, the useless head-the-ball, frozen-in-the-headlights, worst-person-ever-to-have-with-you-in-a-tight-corner, to grow a spine and to flippin'-well help me, but it's only when I snatch up his Stanley Knife still lying atop the stack of paper's by the door, that he finally, glory hallelujah, reaches for the phone.
Well, that's what I'm assuming he's doing, since he's gone and buggered away off out the back.
Gadaffi throws his hands wide, "Puleese, lady, calm down, I no Gadaffi, I nice man - " He smiles, "See? I only come here to visit brother.."
"Oh for f***k's sake, don't tell me we've we got him over here, n'all..?"
Anyways friends, the police did eventually turn up, but instead of arresting Gadaffi, can you believe it was actually ME they had the affront to slap in hand cuff's? I know, I know, talk about ingratitude, eh? Proper offended I was. These days, it's little wonder normal folk like us shy leery of ever getting involved, isn't it?
Fortunately, whilst attempting my citizen's arrest, I'd accidentally kicked the s**t out of Gadaffi, well, it was only to subdue him, of course, but the wimp somehow fainted (and no, he was not in a coma when they trundled him away in the ambulance, that's a pure, scurrilous lie, so it is).
But, um, yes, it is true he did need to have a stay in Nobles hospital for a wee bit. Which is actually just as well, isn't it?
At least the truth came out, since there's no denying finger-prints, eh? Hmph. Told you so! And PROPER apologetic everyone suddenly finds themselves, don't they?
So I'm not charged with causing an affray, or of inflicting any grievous bodily harm now, am I? Oh no, not at all, it appears the whole wide world and it's Uncle is now besotted with both me and my hairy legs.
Um, yeah, 'twas kinda' unfortunate me meeting that storm of paparazzi so fresh from my release like that, most unflattering. Like I say, I never dressed for going out that morning, for sure I would have been certain to have at least run a comb through my hair (on my head) had I even the slightest inkling of all the fuss I'd walk into.
Still, it all came out well in the end, eh? The press have happily moved on from that recent regrettable incident, the one involving Sharon Banks and me, and the postie hasn't even delivered any more hate mail to my door in weeks. Apparently I'm a hero now.
I'm in line for a medal, too. Yeah, I'm off to Buckingham Palace next week. Libya has invited me over as well, but I'm gonna' wait until their hotels are a bit more comfy, first.
'Course, the reward money has come in handy, I've even managed to settle that civil suit Sharon's mum brought against me.
So then, doesn't that just go to show, eh? However bleak and dismal life is, you simply and truly never really know what the dawn of a fresh tomorrow will bring..
Hey, hang on, is that David Cameron's dulcet tones on my answer-phone?