Are you a woman, Billy?

I am beginning to think I might have worked out why. I believe you are really a woman.

Yours Disillusioned.

OH dear Di, or should it be Mr Sillussioned? It certainly won’t be Mrs ‘D’ will it? There will be letters. You have certainly got more balls than me to pen such a sexist thing or as the saying goes, ‘you are a braver man than me Gunga Din’. (For the purists, the actual quote is, ‘better man’).

If Ms Nomates reads it you could be a dead man or worse still you could end up in a coma like me, and not, as you put it, a full shilling. You have to be careful with spelling words like coma otherwise you could end up in a ‘comma’, only to discover you aren’t a full sentence.

I thought at first glance you were possibly of Welsh origin, Di Sillussioned. Maybe I should go to Specsavers. You can hardly blame me can you?

Welsh is such a funny language with unusual names. Whenever Ms Nomates and I visit she forever asks me why such a small country has so many villages called Goslow. I say nothing. There are a few Tywyns and I don’t want to confuse her anymore than she is already. If I may say so Di, you have unwittingly grasped the idea. The full title of my column is actually, ‘THE RAMBLINGS OF BILLY NOMATES A MAN WITH TOO MUCH TIME ON HIS HANDS’.

It is not supposed to make complete sense. I ramble. I am a rambler. I wander. I am a wanderer. I meander. I take the high road and you take the low road and I’ll be in La La Land afore ye. When writing I rush through words or sometimes I amble around a select few taking pleasure from each one. You can often take pleasure from words. Think of one that gives you pleasure and see how it makes you feel. Put that word back you naughty boy.

Writing is not easy. You have to come up with new ideas all the time. My inspiration comes to me in the night in bed. I climb in next to Ms Nomates and think all kinds of things. She lets me be whatever I want to be in bed, except awake. Once the night cream goes on to the face it’s telly off and ‘bo bos’. She treats me like a child. I believe she thinks I’m already senile. I hear voices. They tell me to do things. They tell me to write things. They tell me what to think and say. Unfortunately they never tell me the lottery results. As soon as I awake I am dying to get at it and I jump straight on to my wrypetiter. Thank goodness for spell check, I mean. ‘typewriter’. I am a word squirrel. I take all the words I have stored in the night and try to assemble them in to some sort of order.

I hope for both our sakes that although you may still remain disillusioned that you are somewhat more illuminated. Just watch Ms Nomates face light up when I explain Goslow.

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