Dear Diary: oh, what a shaman!

A curse upon the house of (James) Frazer! Ever since Albert’s rain chants have succeeded in bringing down torrents of water, fire and air upon our heads, Albie has been insufferable, comparing himself with every ancient luminary, real and mythological, from Albertus Magnus to sky-god Zeus himself. He has taken to painting a zig-zag across his forehead (too Harry Potter, I tell Albie) and wearing a garland of oak leaves (courtesy of Corn Dollies) upon his head. To crown it all, he insists upon creating booming sounds by slapping Marcia’s motor-tarp across the wall, at intervals.
“Why bother with the tarp?” asks the less successful shaman, Steven. “The larder is filled with baked beans." Actually, beanus haricotus is the extent of our diet nowadays, so intent are we upon gathering the wherewithal for a house deposit. Marcia herself is working 25 hours a day in her care home job, with barely time for a comfort break. And I? Gentle reader, do await the next entry.