Well, it’s been fun. But this fortnightly account of a renowned homosexual’s comings and goings must end here, it seems.
I've had the "Dear John" email and security are standing by, even as I write, to make sure that I clear my desk out the moment this final column is filed. Apparently, they're armed with Mace and a colour photograph of John Barrowman in case I turn nasty, which is a distinct possibility. (My life coach, Geri Halliwell, thinks I have separation anxiety - mainly because I can't sleep unless the drummer from McFly is in the bedroom with me. It's just the boyfriend wearing a pork-pie hat, if the truth be known, but who cares once the lights are out?)
As this is my last "Julian's Week", I feel I ought to clear up all outstanding matters as far as possible. I don't want to leave any loose ends behind me, as it were. I wouldn't want my regular readers to lie awake at night wondering about the longevity of my personal relationship, the welfare of Valerie the talentless mongrel or the fate of my chickens.
As it happens, there has been chaos in the chicken department. The six of them (known collectively as “The Nolans”) are now 14 weeks old, and comprise five hens and Blake, the only cockerel. Or so I thought. Within the past fortnight, young Jodie has suddenly begun showing another side of herself. It turns out that she’s not the sweet, innocent hen I thought she was. I’m all for an alpha female, but if Jodie is going to turn into a dirty great cockerel, there’s trouble ahead with Blake. It’s a bit like putting Robbie Williams and Aled Jones in a sack together – there’ll be a fight to the end.
An unfortunate question mark also hangs over Margaret and Billie. They've been beefing up, too. Butch is fine, but sexual realignment could ruin everything at this stage. Four boys and two girls is not a happy mix in the poultry world. Apart from the reduction in the number of eggs I shall receive for my trouble, this ratio of male to female spells bad news for Jordan and Maureen, the only remaining receivers of so much male attention. I've no wish to spell it out, but suffice to say the hens will be "improved" a bit more often than they might want to be. I do feel awful leaving the matter at this cliffhanging ending, but be assured that I shall strive to do the right thing.
My relationship remains stable. Just me, the boyfriend and his BlackBerry. It's a bit like having a "To do" list as your love rival, but it's been explained to me that people in the real world have to work to deadlines, and apparently organisational skills can prove something of a boon.
I shall complete the first draft of my second novel in the next few weeks. It’s mainly filth, as you might expect, but it does feature a very important BlackBerry that inexplicably ends up immersed in Romney Marsh. It’s uncanny how life and art can become intertwined.
Valerie the dog continues to struggle with her personal freshness issues, but enjoys her new role as chicken guard. She thinks she's in Prisoner Cell Block H, if you ask me. She now answers to the name "Vinegar Tits".
I shall miss the perks of the job writing for the New Statesman - the drinks tab at Chinawhite, the company Bentley and the private jet. Most of all, I shall miss the staff canteen. I'm very partial to the chef's special - whatever it is that he drizzles over a Queen's Pudding, it's nectar.
The security guards are now looking impatiently at their watches. I quickly send off my last expenses form and make my way through the opulent New Statesman foyer. I steal a final glance at the Damien Hirst originals that adorn the walls and then slip out into the cool autumn night.
