Sam Peeps’ Diary

I’ve been reading about self-sufficiency. Apparently it’s a way to escape the stress of modern life; maybe I should leave behind the stressful world of getting up at three in the afternoon and eating crisps.

I bought one of those stockings with a face that grows cress in it, and Gordon reckons he knows someone at Hackney City Farm who can get me a pig (but then he also says you can make good money racing them, so the whole thing might be one of his lies). I suppose I’d need two pigs to make it sustainable; there’s not much room but I could build them bunkbeds. Can you grow potatoes in a bath?

Couldn’t get to sleep (kept rolling over and putting weight on my arm bruises) so went to the 24 hour shop for cigarettes. I saw the man who looks a bit like Noddy Holder again. I don’t think it is Noddy Holder, but the first time I saw him he noticed me staring at his almost-but-not-quite-Noddy-Holder face and smiled in that slightly smug way famous people do when they realise they’ve been recognised. Maybe he thinks he’s Noddy Holder. Maybe he is the real Noddy Holder but, because of the enormous pressure of celebrity, swapped places with a man who looks similar to him, like in that film where Elvis fights a mummy.

I think I’ll play some Slade records backwards and see if there are any hidden clues. In a way I wish I could turn the clock back to the brief moment when I thought he was Noddy Holder. Things were better then.

Greg is coming over. Greg is my friend, but really I’m a bit scared of him. We met in the library when he shouted at me because I was holding the Making of Stargate book and he wanted to look at it. I let him have it then he said I was a good friend and laughed and punched me really hard on the the arm. He punches me really hard on the arm a lot. Sometimes it is so hard I want to cry, but I don’t.

Usually he comes over to show me his new lady magazines. He likes to point at his favourite ladies and punch the air, or if they’re especially nice, my arm.

He says he’s got a special lady magazine from the internet with ladies from Stargate in it. This is quite exciting, but I think I might put on my thickest jumper, just in case he takes a shine to any of them. I’m not sure how much Greg really likes Stargate, the other day I asked him whether he thought the spin-off novelisations were canon and he didn’t know.

I hope he doesn’t eat all my Jaffa Cakes again.

My wife has left me.

Well, I say wife; the woman who lives in the flat downstairs moved out yesterday. But she used to smile at me when we passed on the stairs, and I once let her borrow my miniature screwdriver set. I think we were making progress though, I was going to ask what her name was next week. We’d have been married one day. It would have been lovely, watching my Stargate video together and me stroking her lovely hair. She’d laugh as I pointed out my favourite continuity errors.

A middle aged African looking man is moving in as I write. I don’t think he will be my wife. Maybe if he wears a dress and a wig. No point in being pessimistic! I think I’ll write that on the bathroom mirror using toothpaste.