The Diary of Captain Canary – Part 5

Posted by on March 22, 2012 in diary | 0 comments

Dear Diary,

I’m sorry I’ve ignored you. I’d turned a corner.

Some people think being a mascot is stupid, they think it’s all flapping your wings and taking bad penalties. I’d learned to ignore them. I trained hard every day, threw myself into my work. I’d learned to cherish the opportunity to walk on the hallowed Carrow Road turf, bringing happiness to young children and entertainment to the masses. Oli Johnson worshipped me for that, now he’s gone.

It was a blessing. I was so lucky, I had moved on and had barely thought about … her… for months.

Sometimes I’ll see a face in the crowd, a dark face. It’s just a glimpse and then gone again, behind some fat guy waving a chicken balti pie. I look away, tell myself it’s nothing, and think no more about it. That face only returns at night in the shadows, but by morning I embrace the new day and thank Delia for giving me the strength to carry on.

Like I said, I’d turned a corner.

I’d even learned to live with Mad Marc singing outside my flat with his accordion and Russell Martin dropping in at all times of the night to borrow pants. I don’t know what he does with them all.

I think moving out and being on my own had helped. It gave me space to think and write my poetry. It also meant that every time I opened my laptop the background hadn’t been changed to Splat’s blue arse. Aviva Lemur had moved in with him the day after I left. They’d been waiting for me to go and now I have it seems to have relieved some of the pressure. Splat and Aviva took to each other straight away, but I’d never suspected it was any more than friendship. They won’t admit it, but I know unholy things happen between them in what used to be my bed.

That’s another thing I’ve learned to ignore. I’m a professional, and when I go out on a Saturday I give it my all. I can work with them no matter what, because I know I’m serving a higher purpose. Stephen Fry winked at me before the Man Utd game. Things were looking up.

It was the Stoke game that did it. Watching it was like hypnosis, I could feel all my hopes, dreams and ambitions being sucked into the screen. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It was like my soul was being ripped out of me. I tried to scream, but made no sound. When I close my eyes, I can still remember the despair and pain. Since then, (Delia forgive me) I’ve entertained the possibility of being relegated so we wouldn’t have to go back to the Britannia. This has put me back on the spiral, hating myself more and more.

I need someone to talk to but only you, *dear* Diary, understands me. I wish you could speak.

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