Standing in line at the bank wouldn't be nearly so bad if a) the general public weren't so annoying and b) if I was actually allowed to take my guns in. Guns apparently make banks nervous for some bizarre reason...

     The worst thing about waiting in the bank is there is no way of avoiding idiotic policemen without losing you place in the line. Sometimes I think I should move away from cash only business practices, but then again I think sitting on a PDQ helpline for 8 hours would be more annoying – there are only so many times I can listen to hold music loops for before I blow the phone to pieces.

     On second thoughts – me having guns in a bank might actually be a bad idea...

Reason why Mondays aren't the greatest day of the week: -

1) Traffic queues always seem to be so long that even the pedestrians end up being twenty minutes late.
2) Being two minutes late to the pub makes you miss food being served even if you've known the owner and manager for more than a decade.
3) Death threats seem to be much more forth coming from strangers.
4) Random outbursts if violence from strangers seem much more likely and twice as frequent as death threats.
5) Urban areas seem to be transformed into areas of guerilla warfare.
6) Concentration seems to be negatively impacted by all of the above.

     Well okay the fifth one suits me just fine – especially as it seems to provide a welcome distraction for the police force and a certain highly irritating sergeant! For some reason following me about the city seems to go hand in hand with promotion in the police.

     If the correlation between time spent with me and speed of promotion was charted and distributed as a training publication then I'm sure many more people would soon be gracing the dizzing heights of detective-hood.

     However number 6 is a bit of a problem – especially when 3 and 4 are an everyday occurrence anyway that just seems to be amplified by the fact that it's Monday.

     Monday's are also historically a slow day for business – something that battling for survival out on the streets of the city makes either the phone lines act up or people less likely to call.

     Odd really, a slightly psychotic P.I. makes an extremely good bodyguard against commuter warfare. Still, can't expect the ordinary man of extremely limited intelligence to realize such an obvious fact. He also is highly unlikely to be able to afford the bodyguard service as I do like to consider my life is worth a fair amount of money. That and bodyguard work is highly boring.

On the first day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, a headache the size of Italy.

On the second day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the third day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the fourth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the fifth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the sixth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the seventh day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the eighth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the ninth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, nine consecutive phone calls, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the tenth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, ten packs of cigarettes, nine consecutive phone calls, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, an eleven mile car chase, ten packs of cigarettes, nine consecutive phone calls, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, Fred Barlow gave to me, twelve sincere apologies, an eleven mile car chase, ten packs of cigarettes, nine consecutive phone calls, eight hours broken sleep, seven arresting officers, six new cell mates, five interrogation hours, four shouting matches, three tasteless meals, two nights in jail and a headache the size of Italy.

And people wonder why I hate Christmas...

Why is it that the day that is supposed to be the mushiest, gushiest, most annoying day of the year is actually my best business day throughout the whole year?

It's enough to make someone cynical...if I wasn't cynical already...Valentine's Day gives me two solid weeks of work either side of the day that means I can't do anything other than plough through each case! It's amazing how long the human body can function without sleep as long as there is takeaway food and alcohol available.

This year for example I had eight women asking me to find the men that were stalking them and then hand them over to the police, was rather unfortunate for Constable Evans really; seven men who wanted to me to follow their wives to find out if they were having affairs, six women asking me to follow their husbands, five men asking me to follow their wives so they could have affairs without being caught, four teenagers wanting me to find them dates for Valentine's Day, three women asking me out for Valentine's Day, two men asking me out for Valentine's Day and final one really annoying policeman breaking up with yet another bimbo and wanting to spend the day with me.

Avoiding the last six makes getting my actual work done very difficult. 

Who on earth is it that keeps dreaming up all these days to dedicate to different groups of people? Seriously I can understand mother's day and father's day in some small manner of speaking. Ungrateful brats that demand toys and sweets all the time when they are awake and when they reach the age of 6 require a constant free taxi service should have to spend a day helping their poor parents out so the aforementioned adults don't have to kill them and bury them in the garden. This is perfectly reasonable.

The whole thing seems to be going slightly too far though when there is a day dedicated to hamsters, talking like a pirate and numbers with far too many decimal places. Not only that, but it is rather misleading for private investigators who think at last they are getting some recognition on 14th March for all that they do to improve the lives of the cattle that pace the streets below their office windows and generally are ignorant of most of the outside world, only to find that this day is not a day dedicated to the hard working, under appreciated private eye, but to 3.141592.

A mathematical constant receives more adulation than both myself and the Greek letter put together! Worst of all is when police sergeants use this tiny misunderstanding as an excuse to ridicule the sensible assumption. Hammering the point home by posting 3.14 cards reading "Happy Pi Day, here's to a number that's as irrational as you" was just cruel.

As I cannot hurt a number, I will just have to take out my frustration on hunting a certain man with a paint gun whilst he is driving his newest sports car...I wonder how long it would take to etch a legible π onto a bonnet from 12ft away... 

I don’t know what it is about the general populous that means walking into a bookshop dressed in leather – black, covered by a long coat – black, inspires distasteful glances and even tuts. It’s almost enough to hurt a woman’s feelings.

Almost.

Of course the tuts of disgust are soon replaced by mildly discontented gasps and stifled screams at the sight of my revolvers sat in their holsters.

People really need to make up their minds, either fear, loathing or disgust. To keep changing between them is just unfair. For some reason the only person that currently seems to have his mind made up about me is one Frederick Barlow and his opinion of me is just plain wrong.

I discovered his current mind set quite by accident. Two days ago, a rather large vase of flowers may have found itself making an unexpected journey out of the window onto the bonnet of a certain person's car...yes the vase and flowers were from the same person...and yes they were handed to me with a proposition of dinner and dancing.

Granted if I was a normal human being, I would have melted and fallen into his arms as he apparently expected me to. Strangely enough this didn't happen. Instead he decided to tell me what a wonderful person I was...when you end up being described as a gentle, kind, compassionate person and there is still dried blood in your hair from where you shot someone not an hour earlier, you begin to wonder about the sanity levels of the person in front of you.

There are times when there are small amounts of hope for the human race...on days like today...Fred Barlow is the greatest hope for them...so really they're all doomed.

Why is it that chocolate seems to have found it's way into every form of main stream societies celebrations? The shelves of shops seemed to be packed to overflowing with the stuff months before big calendar events and people wonder why there is an obesity problem...

I have no big problem with people celebrating religious events, I would rather not go around upsetting God in his heavens when there are enough people on earth whose wrath seems to be aimed my way. I'd rather not invoke any higher power's displeasure as well. What I do have a problem with is the way that people seem to think that a religious festival is an excuse for a holiday and to celebrate and try to make me join in...

I'm not religious, my faith is in my guns and my own intelligence. I was raised that way, no one has ever spoken to me about God to try and convince me otherwise, most have just assumed that I am a terrible sinner beyond saving I think. The closest any one has come is the pastor/priest/vicar whichever it is that Fred goes to see for spiritual guidance, a man named Patrick.

The man didn't preach at me, he talked to me, like a human being...the only other person who has ever done that really is Fred, well in my adult life at least. He asked me what I believed and why so I told him, didn't tell me I was wrong, didn't tell me to change my ways or how I needed to change my life before I ended up in hell (my father always said that's what church goers did). He simply said that he would pray for me.

I'm not sure what pull that would have with the Almighty but it felt nice to know that there might be someone looking out for, for no other reason than they wanted to. I found out two days ago that the guy was shot just round the corner from my office. Turns out he was coming to see me about something and didn't want to risk phoning. Fred had offered to come with him, but he'd said it couldn't wait. 

Whatever it was, somebody shut him up. That somebody obviously didn't know that they were going to kill the only person I have ever met that shows the world to not be a dark and dismal cesspool of evil. To take them from the world, from me has definitely got my attention. 

When I find them they are going to be praying for mercy, which is ironic really, since it's their fault that all of my mercy died when they killed Patrick.

It was a commonly held view between men and women of sensible and logical character that there are very few good things to come out of the 80s and that fashion is not one of them.

In fairness to the decade, some brilliant films and music were made during it but why oh why oh why oh why oh why oh why would anyone want to bring back backcombing and shoulder pads?

My sense of style hasn't changed much since I was fourteen - black biker leathers and black leather custom crafted body armour tend to be as timeless as blue jeans and white t-shirts and have the same effect on the opposite sex. This means that I don't have to keep up with all the ridiculous trends that seem to seize the imagination of the general population.

I was walking down the street today when I happened to wander into some of the clothes shops on the high street and after about half an hour really began to question whether or not I had been knocked out, stuffed into a DeLorean and then dumped back in 1986.

The only thing that convinced me that I hadn't been was the prat who walked straight into me, cursed me with more expletives that the average member of the population actually knows and then went back to playing with whatever app is currently the centre of his life on his iPhone.

Was such a pity his phone exploded two seconds later and the sound of the gun shot did send most of the public out and about into a general panic. 

As much as the guy was asking for it, whoever decided that bringing the style of the 80s back needs to be shot more.

There is something wonderful about April. A month of rain and wind that causes misery to more than half the populous. Of course the gardeners rejoice at their plants and shrubberies being watered by the skies and the farmers dance joyously as their crops and fields get doused with torrential downpours. But the average person moans and wails about the weather. The same people that moan about the rain also moan about it being too cold in winter and too hot in summer.

These people are - in short - annoying.

They can find almost anything to complain about, it gets dark too early, its too light outside, its too far to walk to get the paper, it hurts when I get shot. Okay well maybe the last is something most people would complain about.

But for me April is a wonderful time of year. The streets are practically empty as the generally public choose to stay out of the rain as much as possible. It makes walking from A to B an easy endeavour and not only that but there is such a joy to be had walking in the rain. To be buffeted by the wind and have my face splashed by the rain is one of the very few pleasures in life that I do take time to enjoy.

Sadly there is one other individual who also enjoys such activities and also may have started a puddle water fight when he found me yesterday. Yes I speak of course of the most annoying man to ever grace the planet, Sergeant Frederick J Barlow.

Having taken time off after the arrest and incarceration of Henry A. Weldon, Fred finds that he has all sorts of time to make himself annoying on a whole new level. It has also meant that my enquiries into the death of Patrick have had to be some what covert until Fred returns to duty.

As he was a friend of Fred's, he would obviously want to help with finding the man that killed him. However the order from the top brass was that the crime had been classified as an accidental death and was not to be investigated further. Fred would gladly disobey such a directive, but I wasn't about to let him risk his career when I was perfectly capable of seeking out his killer on my own.

So for another three days I have to endure the company of Fred and put off finding myself a murderer who I haven't quite decided what I am going to do with yet. If it is raining I am sure Fred will find me for further aquatic games, which in truth have been sort of fun so far...just as long as nobody tells him that it's okay. 

Other than Halloween, today is the only day that I expect to turn around a corner and run straight into Darth Vader.

Granted the first time this happened, about two years ago now, I was not only surprised to walk straight into Darth Vader but surprised to discover that inside the confines of the costume was a then police constable. Yes, you've guessed it, Fred Barlow is a Star Wars geek.

I wasn't sure which of the two was a more difficult concept to process - that I hadn't just happened across David Prowse or James Earl Jones or that Fred Barlow was spending his day off dressing up as Darth Vader and rushing to some secret event.

Naturally I had no choice but to follow him. There are, after all, few times in life when there is honestly nothing that could be more amusing than what you are about to witness.

I was hoping for some form of children's birthday party where he had been hired as the entertainment and would have to dance to Michael Jackson's Beat it, accompanied by Stormtroopers. Sadly though it was a private party in a bar, for which I was denied entry due to my lack of costume. Not even waving my impressive arsenal in their faces could move them to allow me in.

This called for drastic action. It took me half an hour to locate and change into a more suitable outfit. Thankfully I did not have to dress as Princess Leia as I really did not want to feature as the centre piece in any fantasy those around me may have been prone to. Instead Boba Fett provided me a way past the Wookie and Gamorrean that guarded the entrance. On the whole it would have been a fairly normal costume party except for the life-sized game of Dejarik being played in the corner.

What caught my eye the most was the force lightning competition, which Fred seemed to have entered into. Round by round the contestants were whittled down until only five remained. The remaining five then had to recreate the lightsaber duel with Luke Skywalker (the rotund bar owner in this case) from The Empire Strikes Back. The whole thing would have lost its appeal had it not been for Fred making it through to the lightsaber duel. It is surprisingly difficult to suppress laughter dressed as a bounty hunter, especially when Fred was declared the winner and asked to remove his mask.

Strangely enough the whole thing was supposed to be a secret, so when the photos turned up plastered all over the offices and cells of the police station it was probably a touch embarrassing. Still have no idea how it happened...or where I put the negatives...

There was a time when it was easy to tell criminals from the rest of the cattle throng. The shifty eyes, the scarred face, the tommy guns tucked under the arm - ah what days of salad and glory were these.

Again the modern world has taken away the ability to spot the criminal mastermind with the insurgence of teenage cybergeeks into, hitherto, the province of men. Anyone on a skateboard raises suspicion now, especially when they are found circling cash points. If you are within any doubt of who these creatures are, they can be easily recognized by the inability to dress. Jeans are worn halfway down the leg so that the majority if not all of their underwear is visible.

The vulturic tendency of the beltless generation aside, most of them do not have the skills nor lack the intelligence that criminal enterprise demands. This may seem to be a contradiction in terms but there are many people I have come across who think themselves highly intelligent but have no form of skill in any field other than mindless conversation - Mayor Major Tyler is an excellent example of this.

In all honesty I miss the days of the street thug and his master lurking in shadows waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting hero. Granted this does still happen, Kevin Metis and Derek Long are cases in point, but both are now currently rotting in prison cells and this does make life fairly dull in places.

Yes there is the constant annoyance of Fred Barlow to contend with on a daily basis but dodging him has become more of a tedium than an activity. What would be a refreshing change would be a criminal mastermind with both skill and intelligence, like Professor Moriarty but sadly I am no Sherlock Holmes. So someone on my own level to match wits and gunfire against would make my day for all of three seconds.

This doesn't seem to be very likely though so I shall have to be content with beating and shooting young men and women who live like cave-trolls and have no upper body strength but do manage to amass much of what is left of the rest of the world's disposable income...or rather convert it into technology and a collection of mint condition comic books and action figures.

A civilized sport, a day out for many across nations where picnics can be consumed whilst enjoying the sound of balls being batted about and wickets being taken.

Well at least it was!

What was a wholesome pinnacle of sport for the class system has been debased by those who are frankly no better than football hooligans. Yobos lie half naked gulping down pint after pint of overpriced larger and spraying half eaten burger remains over those unsuspecting few sat around them. Air horns blare out from stands that Jerusalem once issued forth from.

Blue hazes hang over stands from the language used and every Tom, Dick and Harry tries to claim membership in the Barmy Army when they come to but one game dressed as some form of supposed children's entertainment and don't know the difference between a wicket and a boundary.

This I know to be true from more than mere conjecture as the irritating Fred Barlow made me accompany him to a match. Now several things annoyed me about the whole occasion 1) My guns were confiscated until the end of the match and at least five people within spitting difference needed a bullet to dissuade them from idiotic activities. 2) Skin tight leather is not comfortable to sit in in 30 degree heat with no shade and no breeze. 3) Not once during the day did Fred buy me an ice cream.

I had always seen cricket as something akin to Wimbledon in the untouchable stakes. An unshakable pillar, a cornerstone of true culture that would stand the test of time. Sadly it seems that when taking centre court there will be less Pimms, strawberries and cream and more Carling and pork scratchings this year given the fall of cricket.

I have never understood the fuss over birthdays. To celebrate the passage of time that brings ravages to the reflexes, skin and makes you, eventually, want to be in bed for 6pm.


The appeal of presents is also lost on me as other than ammunition, gun oil and possibly a very nice butterfly knife, all of which I can buy myself, so why would I need presents?


Parties also appear to be very overrated - people you can barely tolerate all eating and drinking things you have provided for them, having pointless small talk over the latest hair styles and scandals within your social circle, with a few people who always drink too much and end up throwing up in places you don't find for weeks and then can never get rid of the smell.


None of this holds any joy for me. My birthday always passes unmarked and this I always rejoice in. Well it is mostly unmarked as somehow Fred managed to find out when it was so I always get a card and some form of gift. I will admit that the cigarette lighter, bottles of Macallan and the rifle that is on display in my office were all excellent gifts, but the lingerie was sent straight back to him.


So when Fred sent me an invitation to his birthday party, I was more than a bit dubious about going along, but being told that Mayor Major Tyler would be in attendance I couldn't resist the opportunity to turn up and upset him within the confines of polite society.


Turning up at the party in a dress that Fred had bought for me was definitely not such a good idea as it gave him completely the wrong idea about why I was there, but on the other hand I didn't have any clothes that were suitable other than those which Fred had bought me. When he wasn't throwing me around the dance floor, he seemed to be miserable. Most of the people who were there were self-important and made snide remarks about his choice of venue and the wine being served...they may have ended up with the claret down their fronts, nothing at all to do with me tripping the waiter...


Before the end of the evening I genuinely felt sorry for Fred, that these were the people he had to spend time with day in and out. Now I may find Fred the most annoying person on the planet but he is one of the few genuine and decent people out there and the fact that he has to put up with these people made me want to do something about it...


Now after I had significantly wound the Mayor up enough with threats of levelling city blocks if he didn't offer any assistance in my investigation into Patrick's murder with a slight relaxation on how much of the law applies to me, I decided to have a little fun with some of Fred's more narcissistic guests.


Now sadly, I hadn't been able to bring any of my guns with me to the party, mostly due to the fact that this dress was so tight fitting I am still not sure how I got my body into it, let alone anything else. So in light of this I had to be slightly more creative in finding ways to humble the high and mighty.


After the claret incident, there were a few less people to be concerned over, mainly as a slight smattering of red droplets seems to be enough to make people head home nowadays, shame it wasn't blood really... There was a temptation to flirt outrageously with some of the less subtle men who though clearly with women at the party, refused to keep their eyes from my cleavage. It was mostly put out of my mind because I really wasn't in the mood for dealing with drooling morons or having to put up with Fred moaning about it later.

 

There are days when I wake up and wonder if the world hasn't gone completely technology crazy. I mean medical advancements are all very helpful, I wouldn't still be alive if it hadn't been for some of them and neither would Fred...the jury is still out on whether that is a good thing or not .

Indoor plumbing and refrigeration were excellent revolutions in the home and life without them would certainly be worse. But then you have to consider things like the internet...

Now as a tool for searching it has replaced things like encyclopedias...in fact I am pretty certain that any one under the age of fifteen would stare blankly at me for suggesting that you go to a book to find out information. This I think is a huge shame. Also autocorrect and spellcheck are destroying the English language.

None of this is all that serious when you consider child pornography and the criminal uses such as fraud and cyber theft. Granted those are much bigger problems, I do my best to shoot such lowlife pond scum whenever I can but that tends to get me thrown in prison.

The thing is, what bugs me most about technology - aside from people who own iPhones and can't talk about anything else - is the fact that we are becoming so reliant on it that if it were to suffer a massive failure due to any number of causes (see Hollywood's extensive range of disaster and action movies for scenarios) then my typewriter and I would be some of the only things that could survive under martial law or in a post-apocalyptic landscape...at least then I wouldn't have to listen to any one drivelling on about irate avians.

On seconds thoughts...

What is it about fish? I don't mean for eating, I mean the ones that you keep in a tank or a pond.

I walked into a doctor's surgery the other day to see half of it taken up by a gigantic tank that made it impossible to see the reception desk (a blessing considering the receptionist). Around this tank were gathered all the waiting patients who were just staring gormlessly at the brightly coloured creatures as they swam frantically between the long wavy plants and hid under plant pots.

This mystery was further deepened when I may have had to sort of break into Fred's apartment for the fifth time this month, only to find his dining room had been replaced by an aquarium. This proved very problematic for me as I got so lost in watching the stupid fish that I lost track of time, heard Fred opening his door having finished work and had to climb out of the bathroom window so he didn't catch me. I spent six hours out on the ledge beneath that window waiting for him to fall asleep so I could go home!

So what is it about them that is so mesmerizing? I just don't understand this power they seem to hold over humanity. If any form of crime boss had caught on to their hypnotic powers then global domination wouldn't be far off. In this vein I am having a bookcase in my office replaced with a fish tank to see if I can't convince some of the weaker minded souls that pass through my door to part with more of their money. If I am successful then I am pretty sure I know what happened to all the Jedi... 

Autumn always seems to make so many depressed. Marking the end of the summer and the descent into the dark and cold of winter and yet Autumn is the one time of year I genuinely feel happy.

Shocked as most people are that I am capable of being happy, it happens none-the-less. Autumn isn't too hot or cold, the days are a sensible length and it rains, the trees are colourful and beautiful. The smell of burning is in the air and piles of leaves to jump in or throw at passers-by. What is there to not love about the season?

Yes there is the problem of children running around damaging property when you refuse to give them sugar rushes and hiding behind Fawkesian masks so that the police can't identify them when they manage to escape arrest.

Still I have always felt that the Guy on a bonfire could always do with looking more lifelike... 

Why is it that filling out forms is one of the most laborious and tedious tasks that administration ever created? What is it about having to answer a series of questions with confining restrictions placed upon the information that you can provide is just so tortuous to do?

Was it created as some form of passive aggressive torture by frustrated, mild mannered secretaries? Or was it an April Fools prank that really has gone too far given that forms have persisted for several years now?

Whatever the reason for the existence of forms, from now on I am making Fred fill them all in since he is responsible for me spending a week in jail...I'd only had the locks changed on his apartment...

Waking up to a world that has become white overnight has never been overly thrilling for me. It's not because that snow is not fun to play in. In fact, last year when there was a complete white out of the city, the police department invited me to join in their city wide snowball fight.

The detectives vs. the sergeants and the constables.

Naturally as a private detective, I was assigned to the detectives' side, which meant that I was facing off against Fred. I took endless pleasure in pummelling him with snow for all the times he has had me arrested. Equally he took the opportunity to try and bury me in avalanches for causing him so much trouble over the years.

Most satisfying of all the detectives emerged victorious, earning me bragging rights. What I didn't know at the time was that the inspectors didn't know that the snowball fight had taken place and due to their exclusion from the battle, they banned all future such engagements.

It's not that it's cold. It's cold most of the time in my office, especially when I can't afford to pay the heating bill. It's something I have become very gradually acclimatized to and even developed a mild resistance towards it. It's not that it's wet either.

My biggest problem is that the world being white means that I stand out. The shadows are diminished by the light reflecting powder, and so my favourite places to slink around no longer exist. I dress in black, hence my moniker, but black stands out on white. Trying to hide from people trying to kill me becomes infinitely more difficult when you haven't any camouflage.

If this continues much longer I think I will have to change to being the Ivory Siren...as long as I live that long.