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Diary of a Possessed Person

By Philip Gilliver All Rights Reserved ©

Other / Humor


Before the accident, Brian Hingle was just a normal, everyday, serial adulterer, drugs runner and sadomasochist. After the accident he didn't remember being that person at all. But there are always things to remind him, like angry crime bosses and husbands, and the little ghost boy who for some reason keeps saying 'thank you'.

January 1st

I had quite an interesting time in town yesterday. I wasn’t there to purchase anything, merely to return the present I bought for my wife Kirsty. She wasn’t very pleased with the SuckMaster 450 Vibromatic Deluxe, but only when she found out it was a vacuum cleaner. As with all things purchased by yours truly, I was compelled to try it out. In my honest opinion, it failed to perform to the specifications of the one in the commercial. In short, it proved incapable of sucking up the pound of carpet tacks like the one in the ad.

Here follows a transcript of the conversation between myself and Mrs. Verity Longton, (as it said on her name badge.)

‘Why on Earth would you want it to suck up a pound of carpet nails?’

‘Because your TV advertisement says it should. Have you not seen it Mrs. Longton? It has been on fairly frequently. In the aforementioned advertisement, the lady is dusting when she accidentally spills her husband’s jar of nails. Let us forget for the moment that the living room is hardly the place for a jar of nails, nevertheless they end up on her rug. She gives a heavy sigh and runs your cleaner over them. A stupid exercise I agree, but in one simple movement back and forth, and miraculously they are all gone.’

‘Firstly, it is not my advert or my cleaner, and secondly, couldn’t you have just picked them up with your hands? It would have only taken you a minute.’

I reminded her most insistently, that the advertisement was boasting the fact that there should have been no need. The law clearly states that claiming that a product can perform in a way that it actually can’t, is in fact false advertisement. This is a clear breach of the Trades Description Act of 1972. I could have taken her and her defective sucking implement to the highest courts in the land and come out grinning.

She asked me if I was “for real,” a term as yet unfamiliar to me and one to look up.

In the end justice prevailed. Of course in retrospect, it was a shame to have had to hold up a queue of sixteen people waiting to buy a lottery ticket.

I told Kirsty about this on my return. She was dashing about the place, applying various commercial products to her person, getting ready to go out again. She was wearing her sparkling black dress that goes too far above her knees, her stiletto shoes and her fish-nets. You could tell she’d had her hair done at the salon. When asked where she was off to, she replied that she was off to the gym. She is a tease that woman.

January 2nd

Last night I had one and it was a most peculiar dream. It concerned me and an accident. Already I have begun to conduct some analysis of the said dream.

It was a glorious day in mid-July. The sun was glaring away and the sunflowers were high and bright. My hips were astride a brand new purchase, a Trimmomatic 5000 sit-upon lawn mower from the garden centre. Kirsty was there too. She wasn’t very happy, then she never is these days, even in my head.

‘Brian,’ she was whining, ‘you are only thirty-one years old. There’s nothing wrong with your legs.’

‘It is not about that, my petal,’ was my informative and prompt reply, ‘it is about practicality. With the old hover mower, or to be exact, the 326 Glider Spectacular, the lawn took me literally ages to give a good going over. With the Trimmomatic 5000 betwixt my legs, I can get it all done in a mere fraction of the time, leaving yours truly time to do that bit of pottering in the greenhouse.

She went in, leaving me to get on with the mowing. But, things didn’t go as well as expected.

When I pulled back on the throttle I went rocketing off down the garden, (which in my dream went on for miles and miles). I tried all sorts of things to stop the thing; taking the spark plugs out, digging my heels into the turf, neither of these things worked. The only way I did stop though, was when I eventually hit a large tree, an oak tree. In retrospect, it might have been an elm. No, the leaves were a bit wide for an elm. It was definitely and oak. Further to my confusion, on one of the high branches of this tree, was sitting a small boy in scruffy shorts and cracked, round glasses. He waved at me and I waved back. This is a first I thought, I’ve never had anybody wave at me from a tree before. But something even stranger happened.

He said, ‘Thank you!’

I’m thinking about telling them all this down at the garden centre. They might want to iron out any design flaws before they push the sales. This wasn’t what one would expect of a garden appliance. Goodness knows what Freud would have made of all that. Then, as was to be expected, he was nowhere to be found, owing to the fact that he has been dead since the 23rd of September 1939. So even if he came over he wouldn’t have been able to offer any useful guidance on the matter. Instead, I have set up a simple blog on my laptop, to ask the internet loving populous. I wait in all eagerness for their hasty responses.

January 3rd

As expected, there have been numerous comments as to what my dream might have meant. It’s nice that there are people out there who care enough about little old me to drop me a line. There have been many interesting, pleasing theories (and a few insulting ones.) There has been some pretty childish name-calling, and I honestly didn’t appreciate what certain persons were trying to suggest with the boy at the end of the trunk metaphor.

I am depressed, as was the report as abuse button with a great degree of rapidity. I do not appreciate such filth coming through my virtual letter-box thank you very much. Know this cyber-friends, your digital dirties have been wiped from my box for the whole of eternity.

There have been some interesting responses too though. For instance, one bright computer sprite picked up on the idea that the tree possibly embodied something that may be out of reach, as if I somehow yearn to be better at something than I am and it wasn’t quite possible at the moment. When you bring the little boy into the equation, then you might think there was an inner desire to have a son of my own. Thanks Mr. S Dutton from Cheam but no. Children are all noise and smells and I am far too long in the tooth to think of such things now.

January 4th

This brand new year has got me thinking about hobbies and how nice it would be to have one. Gardening has been discussed; my wife is not too keen. She has stated that this was not the man she married. She keeps asking me to pinch her bottom and do things to her that would make a politician, or a baboon blush. There is another thing I fancy doing. It is hasn’t got a name, it’s just sticking things onto other things in an ornate fashion, like shells. Apparently you can decorate all manner of things with them. Things such as vases, lamp-stands, picture frames, door frames, letter-boxes, coffee tables, chair legs, various electrical appliances and I’m sorely tempted to do the suite in our bedroom. All you need for this is access to a copious supply of shells, and a reasonably strong adhesive. Nonetheless, with Woolwich not being on the coast, until global warming happens, this would put me at something of a disadvantage. I’ve done some research on Google, and one answer is to have a friendly word with my local sea food restauranteur or a neighbour with a static caravan and a lot of time on their hands. As it happens, the couple next door have a caravan. I’ll ask them if they have any. I shall purchase the bin liners myself. Our little home will be Neptune’s paradise in no time and Kirsty will be happy.

January 5th

Kirsty isn’t impressed, even though my shells had such a nice sheen on them with the lacquer. The Pinners gave me just enough to do the wardrobe. I would have thought she would have appreciated something like that being a woman. I am worried about her. She has been spending far too much time at the gym. All that physical exercise in one week can’t be good for a girl. Gary (the owner of Fit’s Not Unusual) called by last night to return her knickers and I gave him a piece of my mind. It is not a bad thing that she is rubbing shoulders with him. There might be an opportunity there to go up in the world.

If I live to be a thousand years old I will never know how a woman’s mind works.

I’ve started to develop an interest in words. I have already compiled list ones I completely despise.







Cottage (when used as a verb.)

Dogging (when used as a verb.)




Random (when used randomly.)

The use of the word ‘Meister’ on the end of someone’s name in order that they may sound more interesting.


I have started compiling crossword. This morning I posted my first on my blog. There is a £25 postal order for the first clever clogs to fill it in and email it me back.

January 6th

Great news! I’ve had rousing interest in my puzzle. It didn’t take long. The Internet is such a wonderful, speedy, impressive thing. A satisfactory amount of emails have landed in my inbox, five to be exact. People are actually interested in my words and that is marvellous. Nevertheless, all of them were alerting me to the fact that I’d made a bit of a blunder. What a muddle brain I am! What a mistake to make! A certain Mr. Ainsley Chattle of Aldershot had a good laugh at it.

He writes...

Dear Brian

I thought your puzzle was very cleverly put. Your clues were taxing to say the least, worthy of submission to the Daily Telegraph I would say. The readers of that informative paper would see your puzzle, and not realise that it had been compiled by a novice. So well done you, sir! But, and it pains me to point this out as it is really quite embarrassing. It would appear that instead of posting the blank version on your page, you have somehow inadvertently placed the completed version containing all of the answers.

I, of course, do not hold you to blame for this. Obviously you are a man on the other end of middle age as am I, and thus have a tendency to forget things. But I am sure you will understand rules are rules I am sorry. If we ignored them instead of heeding them, then what state would this fine country of ours be in?

Therefore, I am morally obliged to adhere to the original arrangement of your competition, and ask that you pay me the twenty-five pounds as promised in your post. Otherwise, I shall be forced to take a legal path, which I am sure you will agree may be rather unsavoury for us both. This being said, I hope that this hasn’t ruined your day too much, and you will continue your Internet exploits with your usual cheery disposition. In the meantime, I will keep my eyes peeled for your entries, especially your crossword competitions, as I feel it could be a most lucrative venture for me.

All the very best with your cyber future writings


The truth is I have absolutely no idea where my brain is these days - in a matchbox at the back of the wardrobe Kirsty reckons. She said she much preferred it when it was in my trousers. She keeps asking me if I’ve remembered anything yet, such a curious thing to say.

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