Tuesday, June 21

Polls are subject to error...

Poll results are subject to error.
Sez the small print

Dr. Rob is mooching about the house, he seems to be the only one up again, he looks around and yes, everybody is still in the coma they dropped into once the voting had started. With the exception of Vitriolica, Gordon, the other Alan and that Horrid puppet (who has also recently succumbed to the silent sleeping sickness) the house is as quiet as Tutankhamen’s tomb on a wet Wednesday in the desert.

He has heard on the grapevine that he is on his way out so he picks through the detritus of the last few weeks looking for a souvenir of his time in the house. There are lots to choose from.

Should he take a selection of multicoloured thongs or greying Y fronts, he’s not sure that his wife would understand, perhaps a wonky tiara found at the bottom of the Jacuzzi? Why not a Cillit Bang bottle – the cause of all the psychosis and fun had when the house first opened. Dr Rob hears a noise, no, the house is still as silent as a grave, all he heard was the squeaking of the ancient camera’s on loan from ‘'Price Drop TV' as they follow his morose wanderings.

Maybe some charcoal, from that strange artist woman, who he actually got on well with and had a few chats with, when the others were not looking, Dr. Rob thought there was a little synchronicity there, if not the smell of pilchards [erratum I meant to write sardines here!]. 'How I miss the smell of acrylic paint', he thought, and actually one could get a little buzz off it. Not too much as one might be driven to cut one’s ear off!

Ahh look! Dr Rob darts over towards a bush; hanging on it is a signed picture of Christine Hamilton, red lipstick kisses smeared across the photograph. But no he leaves it there dangling on the bush, he wouldn't want to wake The Girl. Dr.Rob kicks through the remains of the furry little things that tried to invade the house at the bequest of Cheerios or what ever its name is or was. Dr. Rob can’t be arsed to remember. What fun, but to no avail LB had blasted the lot, but then it turned out to be a figment of the mass psychosis that affected everybody, except those who had chosen this summer to hibernate, and the yellow fuzzy thing done gone and turned up in the shower.

Dr. Rob sits on the swing made out of an old tyre that has appeared in the house, just because he wanted one. He swings looking back to the mausoleum in which he has spent the last few weeks, was it fun. Yes at the beginning it was but now...he shakes his head and dispairs, but... he brightens up as he remembers the action and adventure holiday he has booked for when he leaves the house, yes two weeks in a Benedictine monastery, O what fun will be had, that’ll make up for the time spent here, frolicking with the Monks of that silent order, what great training the house will have been, invaluable!

Dr. Rob goes to pack his suitcase as he’s sure that he will be evicted today, unless of course, looking on the bright side, those who didn’t finish the tasks get evicted first (Large Hint BB). His unicorn was smashed sometime in the first day, the horn ground up as someone said it could be used as an aphrodisiac, although he wondered whether snorting ground porcelain was all that healthy, Gordon didn’t seem to mind though.

The model of the empire state building made out of matches which was meant to be demolished, was now a three dimensional artwork in the style of Tracy Emin, in that it was now a pile of junk stashed, wrecked, in a corner, next to his bed. Would all prospective buyers please contact Dr Rob via, Little Blogger! Proceeds will to go to Charity, namely me, with 10% to LB - charity number 666.

The Restaurant at the end of the Universe seems to have ended up in the ladies toilet and only the stiff shiny covers are left, lying on their back like a dead butterfly the leaves of text found to be more comfortable on ones arse than the crinkly hard stuff provided by BB. My own Personal Jesus stands in the corner shaking his head, he has been attempting miracles all morning, but it seems I may have purchased a faulty one, that’s the problem with buying stuff on eBay. But then what can one expect for 99p – the real thing? I’ll have to take him home; perhaps I’ll re-list him and move him on to some other mug, although the Benedictine monks might enjoy him for a while.

Dr. Rob zips up his case and awaits Big Bloggers announcements; maybe another name will be called, maybe Dr Rob will stay. Who knows? To coin a phrase in a strange northern accent. Dr Rob smiles as he remembers those few true words that has been his motto, his code, his credo if you will over the last few days, poll results are subject to error.


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