Sunday, So Far Away

Early Sunday morning, I’m watching Youtube when I look at the time. I should go for a walk, I think, but I am so comfortable and the wind is blowing outside.

I push myself to go for a walk. Think it, do it. Go for a walk every day without exception, I remind myself.

I have a shit before I leave, not wanting to put too finer point on it. Somehow, I manage to get shit on my thumb, oh Jesus, and when I reach for the toilet paper to clean it up, I manage to wipe the shit across my thigh. Ah crap! I shake my head. 

9.50am. I leave for my walk. I cross to the sunny side of the street  first thing I do, and as soon as I do, as I am acclimatising, there is a guy in black track pants walking towards me, and I could see his dick moving in his pants with each step he took, and it was a big sausage. He is looking at his phone as he walks so he is oblivious to where I am looking.

I start whistling, Soldier on with Codral, you know, something to suck on.

I call David, we live for stories of our failures, it is what old girlfriends do.

“It always worries me when you call me,” he says. “That someone has died.” (Okay, I’m not good at phone calls, but I don’t have to be, as David is. We speak every day, despite my recalcitrance)

I launch into my story straight away. “On my fucken’ thumb, Jesus Christ!”

David laughs nervously. (Adjusting to the subject matter)

“Then my thigh! Do you believe it?”

David laughs some more.

I ask him if this is what I can expect now? Is it all downhill from here? He says it is. “Not 20 anymore.” I told him I felt I had to report in on the ongoing decrepitude and he tells me about his latest weight gain. We both laughed.

The chick with her bull terrier that used to play with the bulldogs, but is now not able to be trusted, is at Nicholson Street pedestrian crossing when I got there, but I kept walking on the red lights as there was no traffic so I didn’t say hello.

There are two Ridgebacks crossing the plaza in front of me. They are beautiful.

There is a gorgeous blue French bulldog coming towards me as I cross the driveway, one of its ears was still floppy so it was still just a puppy. I can’t help telling the owners what a gorgeous dog he has.

A cute jogger with wild hair and great, hairy legs in short black shorts jogs towards me as I walk down passed the tennis courts. I imagine he is French, he looks French. (French boys are filthy, they always want things shoved up their arses. My last trip to New Caledonia comes to mind)

Pugs and Cavaliers ensue. They seem to be the dog of the day.

Then there is a serene jogger jogging towards me in sun glass at a slow pace. He looks too cool for the rest of us plebs exercising this morning, in his knee length shorts and tie-dyed shirt. (I wonder if he is stoned)

There are girls on rollerblades and rollerskates coming toward me across the plaza on the other side of the museum looking like a fast moving octopus, such is there attitude.

There are more stupid people exercising in puffer jackets at the crossing on the Rathdowne Street side. I just don’t get it.

There are more French bulldogs. French Bulldogs, Pugs and Cavaliers seem to be the dog de jour.

10.15am. I stop for a piss at the second pissoir down Rathdowne Street 

A strapping Indian boy is going in after me, it gives me a thrill picturing him with his cock out. Big, solid, thick thighs. (nose twitch)

10.30am. There is a huge line snaking around the perimeter of the Exhibition Buildings to the plaza outside the museum on Nicholson Street as I come around for the second time, lining up for their vaccines. I’m guessing the treat of not being allowed to play with the other kids in the future have got them all off their bums. Or, is it an age allowed thing just come up?

There is an Old English sheep dog with a top knot with a bow as I approach the tennis courts for the second time, towards which the girls on skates make their second appearance. They whizz passed at speed. I hate Old English Sheep Dogs with tops knots, I think.

I’m having a hey fever attack as I get to the corner passed the tennis courts for the second time, which nearly makes me head for home, but I don’t. I resist. Just keep going, don’t be a baby! My hey fever manifests itself in a tickle down my throat and what, essentially, presents as a dry cough, so I wonder what the rest of the dweebs in the park might think. (Quickly followed by the thought, they won’t think anything, they won’t stop thinking about themselves long enough)

I see the two ridgebacks again as I head down the Rathdowne Street side again.

I see the Old English Sheep dog again, crossing the pedestrian crossing. 

The girls on the skates come up the diagonal path from the middle of the gardens at speed, as I head down the Victoria and Rathdowne Street corner for the last time.

 

I stand out the back and gaze at the disaster that is the collapsed creeper on the back wall. I shake my head and try to convince myself that it will all grow back, which it will, of course.

I head inside and watch a movie. Still Life, about a couple who get themselves a male robot to help them with their lives with which they both become romantically involved.