Stuff, and other things
It’s Thursday morning. I tumble downstairs, and head straight to the toilet. It’s the only way to start the day, in my opinion, although readers may have their own preferred methods. (What do you think? Leave a comment! I really care.)
Standing next to the toilet, I unscrew the lid of a bottle. I drop the lid.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I drop the lid in the toilet. Well, you’re wrong – it lands on the floor. Ha! I fooled you.
I bend down to pick it up, thankful that I have not had to engage in the unappetising task of fishing a bit of plastic out of a low-level sea of horrible water.
It is a stroke of luck. The gods, I decide, have been huddling together up in the clouds, and they have decided to be kind to me. I make a mental note to sacrifice the next goat I meet, in their honour – just a small token of gratitude towards the lovely gods.
Then I head to the bathroom. I catch my reflection in the mirror (which, as remarkably as ever, fails to break). I notice that my hair – which I washed the previous night, to mark the fact that I will be standing for a few moments in front of a camera – is sticking up at the back, a scar from the apparently unusual positions into which I contorted myself during the night’s sleep. No matter how much I pat it down, it refuses to cooperate. I am forced to give the hair a splash of water to get it looking as presentable as possible, but this does not have a huge effect.
I am distraught. I had thought that the gods, were being nice to me. But no – the wretched rotters, the fucking fuckers, had decided to punish me, by making my hair resemble, for want of a better analogy, a duck’s bum. And on the one day when the state of my hair mattered a bit more than usual. Stuff that goat massacre idea.
Luckily it was raining outside. As I waited for the bus, my hair flattened down nicely as the bits of cloud showered me.
Then it emerged that no, I needn’t have worried, because I wasn’t going to be standing around in front of a camera after all. All that getting wet and patting of hair for nothing. They’re definitely not getting any goat slaughters out of me. I like goats.
Yesterday, I found myself exercising. I puffed and panted like something that puffs and pants like Joshua Camille Lee Goodwin when he is exercising. Best of all, I got to pseudo-shout menacingly at fellow exercisers. “Hurry up. No slacking. You’re slowing down! I had never used the word “slacking” before. It wasn’t quite the religious experience I had hoped it was going to be, but I’m not too angry about that..
I thought that this situation could inspire an unoriginal and bad, and therefore very good, idea for a character in some sitcom or sketch show – a sporty coach trainer person dude guy, who happens to be extremely unfit and blubbersome (unlike me, I feel compelled to point out). I bet someone’s already done that though. Probably those wretche Gordon Corden and Jordan Gordon fellows, or whatever they’re called, have done it. Whatever.
Yesterday, I also paid witness to a nose with some sort of dried snot dangling out of it. It look rather like some short-sighted chef had mistaken the olfactory organ for a potato, or a shepherds’ pie, and sprinkled a bit of cheese all over it and popped it under the grille for a few hours. A presto. Delia would approve.
Unfortunately, it was not a potato. It was a nose. A disgusting nose, in serious need of a tissue. It made me feel a little queasy. In fact, I think I want a potato, with some cheese on it. Now!
Don’t worry. Tomorrow, something other than a mundane diary-type thing – the start of another great series. It’s going to taste great, as the Tamil Tigers should have said. Maybe even creamy. Don’t go away, as Chris Tarrant said.