John

I need a doctor. Sometimes I have to piss three times a night, other nights never. Tonight's lady's night every time I get up, wake up- I have to go.

I told her I was getting, sorry, going to get a divorce and she's worrying about it being a future occurrence or a done deed, what's the big diff.

Oh yea, she's shagging a married man, bummer.

But unhappily married, that counts in the big scheme of things surely.

Not if she doesn't know that, you dimwit weirdo jerko.

Washing my hands, soap and water, hygiene is king kiddies, I shuffle back staring down at the now dozing guitar girl. What is she to me?

Anything? Nothing? Everything?

Ok so if I was on a deserted island and could only take one girl, cause it's greedy if I took three, who would it be.....

Cue ticking clock on game show twenty seconds starting now.......15. but I wanna take three........12. nah three girls that's crazy and no alcohol, double nope...............9 and a half.- maybe I just take no one, just my guitar...7. the strings might break, toss guitar.........5. hurry up.....3. Clare....2. Guitar girl.....1. this one right here, sound asleep.

There you have it folks John wins the girl but alas she doesn't know it or him.

There's a song here somewhere I just need to pick up a pen. She won't mind if I use her journal, clean page, no peaking of course.

Sitting on the terrace with a fag and torch I slip through the pages quietly to the back of the book, oops, journal. It's got a tatty leather outer cover and she's got crap jammed in between leather and journal- I snoop... paper, tissue, tiny broken pencil, letter....... No peaking John, but just a quick three seconds blink and I miss it wouldn't hurt.

Should I? Why not.

I turn around and check for ninja Clare, she's as quiet as a church mouse when the mood takes her.

Clear.

3.. 2... 1...

Gold Record, fuck what the actual fuck.

"What are you doing"

She's behind me. So secretively she sneaks, hang on I'm the sneaky one. I slip the missive back in the crack in the leather and she's on me in seconds but I'm faster, book is open love heart doodle in place, top of page.

"Oh, was going to leave you a love letter for your later enjoyment" Smooth Lennon, lying bastard, gold record, no way.

"Hey that's my book"

'Journal, your journal Clare. I know, no harm done, do you want the bloody poem or not"

"Letter, you said letter"

"Poem, letter, both"

"You're up to something, you're scratching your nose, you do that when you're not telling the whole truth"

"No I do not!" I huffed and scratched my snout "Do you want the poem?"

"Yes please mister cranky pants" dazzling cupid lips flutter wide.

"It's very ummm..."

She's stumbling on adjectives and accolades for my sonnet, poem, whatever the hell I wrote.

"...ummm, teenage boy-like"

She cringed and I rounded on her as she sat gawking down at the heartfelt sentimental crap I wrote in three minutes while she had a shower.

In five I used to roll out a whole song think~ A Hard Day's Night.

This.... This is just sad and wrong. Total rubbish, shite.

"Your knockers are round, your bum is too,

Not fat! But curvy like peaches ('cause I like peaches), smooth as, too

Clare you're special, you're pretty as a petal,

Will you kiss me down there...... If I do too"

She stood up and hugged me and said, "The answer's No...... Not til this is at least twenty times better. Lift your game, Cap"

Told you I couldn't write for shit.

She wandered away slowly, shaking her head, yawning off the hook, book under her arm and when I caught up to her she was ramming it under her feather down pillow, the one where the bits of errant feathers poke out every now and then.

She never invited, never shoved me out either so I snuggled, spooning away to my heart's content. Sleeping soundly even though pictures of golden sheep crowded my head.

I'll talk to Macca tomorrow, yeah, he'll sort the shit out.

*******

"I'm telling you it said Gold Record!" I was pacing the studio come joint smoking circle. Paul sat absentmindly stuffing around on his bloody bass, blatantly ignoring my concerns over guitar girl being a musical whiz and having been sent by demons to run me to hell for not being able to write anymore.

"Maybe it said Gold Ringssss" Paul stretched, the feather duster got placed beside his apron. Nah, not really.

Well... he was spraying shit on the Bass and wiping it clean, he was housekeeping nonetheless. "Like five gold rings, four calling birds"

"It's not fucking Christmas for months yet! Are you smoking something stronger than me, because apparently there's no sign of brain activity today" I pulled the spray and cloth out of his hands and sat and cleaned my guitar; When in Rome....

Paul had been on edge from the moment I turned up, then I dropped the golden clanger on him and now look at him, staring off into space like some sort of stargazing astronomy twat.

"Stop floating off Fairy Faul"

"Nick off, shit balls" Paul frowned at the crap comeback and then tried to come up with another "Loopy Lenny"

"Geez has Linda taken away your right to a brain too?!" I laughed back.

"Ok, my house, my rules. Talk nice or you go 'ome....... Winston" He smiled broadly and I chased him out into the yard, past three llamas no they're sheep, two geese and one chook with a death wish. It wouldn't move I swear! Then, after recovering from falling over the death wish chicken, I chased brainless Fairy Faul, past two horses, round the back of the paupers castle styled studio, over the fucking ..... shit, I need to exercise, fence, under the clothes line and in through the back door. Now he's currently hiding behind a giirrlll.

"Linda, Johns trying to 'urt me"

"John?"

"Linda, move away from the girlie dressed as a boy and we'll 'ave no problems"

"I can't do that"

"Why the hell not I thought we had an understanding...."

"Yeah well, If I have my hands full of pins and my foot sat on by a daughter and another hand holding a seam together I'm not going anywhere in a hurry"

"Excuses"

"Put the kettle on Paul, I'm dying for a cuppa"

Paul turned around and put the kettle on... See, trained.

"Hey! In the middle of something here!" I moaned at the interruption of my killing of Paul.

"Give it a rest John" Linda was a bloody Debbie Downer; can't I just kill him once, is that too much to ask. "Why are you chasing him?" She enquired.

"He says his lady friend is a musical genius with gold records under her belt" Paul blabbed.

"She told you that?" Linda arched a pale brow.

"Not exactly"

"How did you find that out then Jawnnn?"

"I may or may not have stumbled over her journal and in turn peeled the leather cover back and delved into the -  Why am I explaining this to you?"

"Because guilt does wonderful things John" Paul inserted, rudely may I add.

Linda watched me intently as she blindly, blindly I say, bound the seam with pins. No, I don't know how, it's quite terrifying to witness actually.

"So, the issue is?" The seam, now pinned and laid flat on the table, Linda leant back and accepted the housekeepers proffered tea. She crossed her arms and waited on my reply.

"Well, who is Clare......?"

"She's – owww" Paul groaned for some reason, probably broke a nail.

"Now there's not too many women walking about with gold records"

"That's sexist John" Linda had me there.

"It's the truth, I don't make up the stats. More boys write than girls- fact"

"Ok so that should narrow your investigation, Sherlock" Faul chimed in. He was laughing the cunt. He stopped when I glared, so easy to have him submissive, still.

"Right lady-..." I smiled nicely at Linda "  -songwriters. List please..." I snapped my fingers for a pen and paper. Paul with a faint smile, handed me a half a blue crayon and an envelope.

"Cher?" Linda looked down then up at Paul, was that....guilt, nope gone, she smiled back at me happily.

"Right, good start" I scratched Cher onto the back of the envelope.

"Karen Carpenter" Paul tossed over his shoulder as he washed up the breakfast dishes- no comment.

"This is no good, I know what Cher and KC look like. She's got to be into something obscure maybe jazz or other weird stuff, can't be too old though she's our age. Arrrr.... I don't know" I tossed the crayon on the table and leaned back scratching the back of my head.

"John"

"Yes Linda, what's the matter?"

"Just ask her"

" Oh Clare" I proposed to Linda " 'your hidden letter just happened to slip from the binding of your secret diary and I was wondering.....' NO, Linda" I stood, then sat, then stood again, took a tea towel and dried the dishes.