What Happened Easter Monday?

Here comes the smoker. That's what they'd be saying behind the counter at my local shop. Here comes the smoker, again. He's put on weight, hasn't he?

Bloody giving up smoking! Grumble, grumble.

Do you think they talk about us when we are gone, those running the shop, the deli, the 7 11? He gets styvos and never wants a carry bag.

No, hang on. I can remember a time when he bought two ice creams and he asked for a bag then. So, he has said yes at least once that I remember.

Well, hardy ever.

I sometimes day dreamed, that was our secret game, See if he takes one, this time. They always seemed to smile, just after I said no, no carry bag thanks. The "Say No" game.

Surely the smile wasn't from the instant profit on the bag calculation?

Do you think they have pet names for us - Red, Skinny, Smelly, Bad-hair, Hot Boy, Hot Girl, Rabbit?

When I walk in its, Here comes Smoking Man. He always buys the newspaper, sometimes both.

Can anyone fit the Age on a cafe table comfortably and eat their lunch? It's breaking the habit. Hedging my bets, just in case the Age fails to amuse. I want gossipy real life crap for a public holiday morning reading.

I've been home all weekend. I've only ventured out to the milk bar to get fags - and ice creams and fish and chips and neenish tarts. Oops!

Get a look at the smoker, does he look like he's been on a mindless hooch bender, or what?

Getting more and more disheveled, by the day, no doubt. I don't think I had a shower, yesterday?

Can I have a packet of styvos?

I've got a beanie for when it's really bad.

That long, never ending walk to the milk bar. In reality, it's only two blocks, but sauced, it's the longest plank in history. I always know when I'm out of it, I don't make contact with the milk bar proprietors.

Ooh, no. Not looking. Not looking. No eye contact, they whisper behind the counter. How are you feeling Smoking Man? No bag, thanks. No eye contact. Fifty dollar note. None. Change. Not well today, Smoking Man! They cheer silently.

I've got pet names for them. Fat Boy, Puppy Dog eyes, Mini Me, Doofus, Boss Man, PussFaced Son and The Gusher...

The sun was shining brightly, I had to cover my eyes. Ah, the smell of early morning, nothing like it - a fresh, but still wet behind the ears, hello.

The cleaning lady is coming today. I'm glad I remembered that. I have to present some semblance of normalcy for when she comes. I wonder what time?

Christine. Her name is Christine. Like the car. Well, not quite like the car, hopefully.

I was going to text David to cancel her, but decided that cancelling her on the morning she was due to work didn't have much integrity surrounding it.

I'm glad I didn't appear like an apparition in the hall way, with my pants around my ankles, barking like the harp seals are now, as she came through the door. I'm glad I remembered she was coming, so there is no risk of that happening.

Can I have a packet of styvos, please?

Integrity, shmegrity, I wish she wasn't coming now.

It's MY HOLIDAY as well! Even with a broken car, I can have a good, uninterrupted, holiday too! What idiot works on a public holiday? Put your feet up, woman, take a brake, it might never happen. Spend the day with your family. moist sigh.

She must be completely mad, she's prepared to go into gay boy's privates, further than any gay boy cleaner ever would. I wonder if she knows what all those leather bracelets have really been used for, as she arranges them neatly in a basket on my bed room mantle piece.

10am. I could have another joint, I reckon.

I wonder if she needs a hep A shot? Well, I've been monogamous all year, so she hardly needs one with me. But it's a thought, hey?