Harpie - Thanks for the Vodka

Forward by Karl Wiggins

Right, lets get one thing clear, shall we? None of this is true. Harpie made it all up, alright? Any similarities between any characters in this book and anybody living or dead are absolute bollocks! It's all made up, imagined, contrived, dreamed up, hatched up, cooked up and never ever happened at all. Never .. ever .. ever.

Got that?

I mean, come on, think about it, could anybody really suffer so much physical abuse not only at the hands of a brutal husband but also by the National Health Service? Of course none of it happened.

So if somewhere in your schizzed out imagination you think you recognise yourself between the leaves of this book, dont flatter yourself. It aint you and it never happened. Understood?

It's all fiction . But if it wasnt then know this; a person from the middle-classes would have a nervous breakdown, but working class heroine Harpie just gets up the next morning and goes to work.

Enjoy

January 2003

My name is Katherine Harpie Harper. Its not my real name; its one that Ive chosen. Friends have said that my choice is stupid but it suits my cause. And whats in a name anyway? It doesnt have to be charming or witty or cute, it is after all, only an alternate form of saying, Oi you. Or usually in my case, Hey bitch, get over here.

It is the first month of the year two-thousand and three and the beginning of the second book in the stand-alone series, Thanks for the Vodka. Another year has begun and an old one seen off with a flea in its ear. I face this new start with optimism, but all that marks it from the last is a new page on a new calendar.

December showed a mechanic with oiled body, overalls knotted at his waist, torso glistening with goose pimples. January, the roofer, is little more than a boy, fresh faced with hope for the future in his eyes. Ill take his hope with gratitude - but Id rather have had fluffy kittens or babies in plant pots to show me the date.

I begin every New Year with a wish.

This year its simple, I just want for Mike and I to be happier than we were last year. That should be easy enough for the wish fairy to cope with because as years go, last year was a shitter.

Ive been busy and my diary neglected but its pulled at my bosom from time to time.

Things have happened in Harpie land.

My first published book is hitting the shops in three weeks. Paul, my cover designer and recent ex-boyfriend, came up trumps despite all probability. He failed abysmally as a boyfriend but hes a good artist. Im sorry for doubting him but trusting men is a problem for me and he didnt give me much to believe in when we were together, if we ever were.

Im still bitter about the break-up; predominantly because he led me on to think that our relationship was more than it ever was. The split was inevitable. The fact that he was still living with his ex-girlfriend indelibly wrote that in the tomes of fate. Now I can think clearly, I know he didnt want to hurt me. And he didnt much because Id put up the barriers to fend myself from it. He was a shit to me. When I got stupid ideas into my head and smothered him in enthusiasm, he didnt have the heart to tell me that he didnt feel the same. So he just told me what he thought I wanted to hear, because thats what weak men do. And then he found that he couldnt live by it. Im a stupid woman and emotionally immature. I think Paul was a friend but I didnt want another friend. I doubt well keep in touch. Hes still a deceiving two-timing bastard.

Im grateful to him for the picture. He didnt have to honour his promise to me, but he did. I admire him for that. He told me the other night, when I wanted to make definite arrangements for paying him that he never had any intention of charging me the five hundred pounds we agreed. I wanted to pay him. I dont want any free rides. I want it all above board and paid for properly. But I had to accept that if I paid him Id be in debt for a long time and that scares me silly. So the book has been funded by the publisher and I got the artwork for the price of one signed copy. Im already feeling like a fraud. But, if Im ever rich beyond fingers and toes, I can pay both Paul and Mr White, my publisher. Ive been very lucky.

The other big news is that Ive finally finished my second novel Devil Be Gone. Its been two years and a lot of hard work but I think its as good as most other books out there and better than some. Now Ive got the even harder work of editing the bloody thing.

Christmas was as awful as expected, but nowhere near as bad as it could have been. Mike had, the best Christmas ever, - I excelled myself, and that made it bearable for me.

Paul came the Monday before Christmas Eve. It was beyond painful and uncomfortable but we got through it. I hadnt expected him to bring the kids, but he did. That made it harder. It was bad enough facing him after the wreckage of our relationship without seeing his kids again too.

Talk about picking his moments.

When we were together he told me that he was working over Christmas. But the factory shut down for two weeks. He must have known all along that it was shutting. Its had a Christmas shut down for the last twenty-five years. More lies. Did he ever intend to work Christmas or was his intended work keeping the lovely Barbie satisfied? I hate that I soaked up his lies and believed every word he told me.

I wasnt expecting him until seven oclock.

He arrived at one.

He told me that he couldnt wait any longer to see me and that hed been excited about it - more mixed messages - I told him Id been dreading seeing him. He laughed and said that he loves my honesty and its one of the things that he misses most about me. I wanted to tell him to get fucked, but the kids were there so I made do with a barbed comment, At least one of us is.

At the end of the last book, I mentioned my client with the infestation of head lice. Im a care in the community nurse and have some delectable clients on my caseload. My fears were realised when she shared her guests with me just in time for Christmas. Its a good job I had no plans whatsoever for Christmas or the New Year because it would have been ruined. I couldnt have gone anywhere sharing creepy crawlies with all I came into contact with. As it was, it was still grim and I think Ive only just got rid of the persistent buggers. Its been a nightmare of mine for years that Id get them one day. Ive never had them before. I have thick, waist-length hair, its in pretty good nick for my age, Im particular about what I put on it and the thought of all those astringent biddy medications filled me with horror.

On the Monday that Paul was coming I had a heavy days work lined up but my boss had no choice but to give me the day off to do a twelve-hour treatment. I got up at five oclock in the morning to put it on and thought Id have plenty of time to get rid of it before Paul arrived.

Only me.

In he walked seven hours early, complete with kids and dog and I was wearing my knickers, the disgusting stained night-shirt that I keep especially for dyeing my hair and a head full of biddy killer. I stank to high hell and was thoroughly miserable - I bet Barbies never had biddies.

He talked at length with his daughter, Zara, about the fantastic Christmas they had planned and made a point of mentioning the Somebody else they had to pick up. Zara said, Yeah, bloody Barbie. Theres no need to rub it in. Its not fair on Harpie, Zara was defensive of me. I really appreciated that. I didnt rise to the bait but it stung.

He came into my house and gloated about his plans with his other, better, woman. Thats the first time that Ive ever thought that he was intentionally cruel towards me. Linda said I should have made up a wonderful new man who was taking us abroad for Christmas. Ive never lied to him before; and Im not starting now.