I’m up at 7.20am. I get straight in the shower. It’s my follow up for my eye operation, this morning, which I’m pretty sure I don’t even need, but that is the procedure so… I’m just pleased that I remembered.
7.40am. I’m in the kitchen making coffee and contemplating toast. I have to leave at 8 am, fuck it, I have time for toast. I see what is left of David’s cumquat jam and I think I might as well use it up. How long has it been? I wonder about the consequences of having jam on toast with my elevated sugar levels, but what the fuck. The fact that I couldn’t get the lid unscrewed initially David would say was the universe speaking to me. What a load of shit, I think, as I reach for the hand towel to get a better grip.
There is more than anticipated when I pile it onto my toast, but there is no use keeping a little bit of it in the bottom of the jar. I spill some down my t-shirt as I woof down the toast, because suddenly the time has ticked away.
“Damn it.”
I leave the house just after 8am and I just miss a tram. Damn it.
Do I go get my car and drive? Do I go and get my bike and ride?
I put, Stop The World on, Patsy Cline. (I've only just uploaded it to my phone) It amuses me.
The schedule on the post says every 6 to 9 minutes, so I decide to wait for the next tram.
It is overcast and cool. The sky is white grey.
8.12am. Every 6 to 9 minutes? Come on tram? And the tram appears. Lovely. As the tram approaches, I realise what I thought was a mask in my hoodie pocket turns out to be a napkin. Damn it.
A tram coming the other way heading into the city is packed with people I notice. Grrr! Hopefully it won’t be like that when I am returning. This appointment won’t take long, after all.
I stand in the middle of the tram initially. Then I spot one empty double seat, but before I can make up my mind, a chick with dreadlocks and her feral child get on, but they don’t take it, so I do.
There is some chick talking loudly on her phone, but fortunately she gets off at the first stop, before I have to mentally plot her death. Her seat is at the front of the seating section so I change to her seat so then no one is facing me with their potential covid breath blowing out at me. The chick with her books and large box of Ferrero Rocher sitting opposite me with her hooked nose and beady eyes looks definitely suss. Don’t people’s eyes bug out when they are infected?
It is warm on the tram.
The cute boy in work pants now sitting next to me, one seat across, takes his hoodie off. He has nice arms.
I can’t take my hoodie off because of the cumquat jam I dropped down the front of my t-shirt.
I’m there well early – do you like that, thank you Catherine Tate – and, initially, I sit on the seat outside the paint shop enjoying the cool weather. I observe an older woman with the long, white fag hanging from her mouth gather up her stuff from the table on the footpath and hobble to her car. I wonder what time she got up to drive down here for a coffee.
I watch the cute young painter with his buzz cut hair, fleecy hoodie and tan shorts with a hole in the arse showing off his red undies and those legs, what nice legs, head into the paint shop.
I don’t sit there too long, however, I have to go in at some point, now don’t I? So, I wander up the footpath away from the old woman and the young painter admiring the heritage shop fronts as I go.
Please keep your mask on, the sign on the clinic doors says, but I don’t have a mask I only have a napkin, so I push the door open and head in none the less.
I tell the receptionists my mistaking a napkin for a mask story and they laugh politely and do a Sale of the Century hand flourish towards a box of masks at the end of their sterilised counter in their oh so sterilised and perfumed environment.
I sit in the waiting room.
The doc sees me on time.
“How have you been,” he asks.
I tell him about the new bulldog puppy, I can’t think of anything else.
“Everything looks fine,” he says. “How do you feel about it?”
“I feel like everything is fine,” I say.
He’s referring me back to my doctor for ongoing skin checks.
“I think we will take some photos today.”
His PA takes photos. “Stand with your feet either side of 1 and look at 1 on the wall.”
Flash goes the camera.
“I got your blink on that one, one more time.”
Flash goes the camera.
“Stand with your feet either side of 2 and look at 2 on the wall.”
I rotate around. Flash goes the camera.
“Stand with your feet either side of 3 and look at 3 on the wall.”
I rotate around. Flash goes the camera.
“Stand with your feet either side of 4 and look at 4 on the wall.”
I rotate around. Flash goes the camera.
“Okay. All done.”
His PA says, “[name of doctor] says you were happy with the procedure, so if I gave you a card you might like to leave a review.”
I review, I think?
“Just if you want to,” she says. “It is fine if you don’t.”
She sees me out to reception like it’s a 5 star hotel. “Here’s that card. Thank you, Christian.”
8.55am. I’m out, back on Queens Parade. The cool wind blows.
There is a tram coming, so I run for the tram.
8.59am. I’m back on the tram.
At Alexander Parade I wonder about The Salvos. I do a quick search and they are open. Interesting, I think. And I’m at the stop. I think it is worth it to stay on to cross the large intersection. Does that age me? Either negatively physically, or positively mentally? I don’t know.
People are on their phones on the tram, I wonder how many are writing their journal like I am?
I get off and go to the Salvos. I get a John Mayer single with alternative tracks to what is on the album, and Mad Max Fury Road. I now have all the Mad Max films and Sam and I can have our own Mad Max festival.
9.30am. I’m out of the Salvos. I’m loving the cool weather. It’s good for walking.
The old white Mercedes and the green Renault 16 are still at, what is it, 384 Smith Street, the back of the kebab shop. The old car geek comes out in me whenever I am passing and I like to check.
I cross Johnson Street.
The old guy in the walker smoking a cigarette sitting out on the footpath, as though he has been deserted there by his carer, looks bitter as I eyeball him and his bald head, and he eye-balls me back, I can almost hear his thoughts, if I was 20 years younger I’d get out of this chair and I’d smash you faggot.
Yeah, well, Blanch good luck with that.
Fuck off.
Yeah, well mate, you’ve got nothing to worry about, but I might like to fuck your son.
You leave my son out of this...
You know he’s a fag...
Shut up! Shut up!
He likes getting his big fat cock sucked by blokes.
I’ll kill you, god help me I’ll kill you.
I look up and a leather skinned, peroxide blonde hag in leopard skin singlet is about to yelp at me for not looking where I was going, but I look up in time, and disaster is averted, well, in her mind anyway.
A handsome 20 year old lost in his phone call walks towards me in tiny shorts and clearly no undies. The boy has a shaft on him clear as day.
A chick with wild blond/grey hair and an oversized shoulder bag struggles down the Condell Street hill, like it is the morning after the night before, like some budget priced hooker who has to work week nights to make ends meet.
A morbidly obese boy stands at the pedestrian crossing in an XXXXXXL white T grimacing looking like he’s about to take his last breath.
I’m still loving the cool weather when I get home despite the sweat starting to creep in from the walk.
It’s 9.52am.
The house is quiet. Nothing. I have to whistle before Bruno comes wriggling towards me from the loungeroom
So, it doesn’t look like Josh is turning up today to fix the roof. I’m going to have to slap his arse.
“You said you’d be here yesterday.”
“I know, I…” I’d grab him, he’d go over my knee, “Hey what?” All of him, solid and floppy.
“There are consequences.”
“I’m sorry,” he’d say.
I’d grab the back of his thick cotton shorts and pull them down over the big hump of his arse, to show red cotton jocks, the smooth curve of the small of his back and the tops of his thick hairy thighs.
“I said Monday, or Tuesday…”
“It’s Wednesday.”
I’d grab the back of his thin cotton jocks and slide the slightly stretchy cotton over the curved mound of his big beefy arse. Nice, round full cheeks. A stripe of black hair gathering at the very top of his muscular thighs before it narrows into a black strip sliding up through the crack in his arse just making it to the start of the concave curve of his torso where it disperses into very fine hair on the tops of each cheek before it fades away all together.
“I meant…”
I’d lie my hand across his firm round mounds, definite feeling where each falls away in the middle.
“I’m sure I said…”
“Monday, or Tuesday.”
I’d pick my hand up and then I’d bring it down fairly gently the first time with a very faint thwack of skin hitting skin.
“Oh… but I’ve been a good boy…”
I’d pick my hand up… “I promise…” and then bring it down firmer. “Thwack.”
“Oh.” Josh would say with a thick tone. “But I have…”
I’d bring my hand down firmer.
“Oh!” Josh would almost moan, but not quite. “But…”
I’d bring my hand down harder again. There would be a definite crack of skin hitting skin.
“Oh!” Josh would exhale with a rush of air. “Ohhhh.” His voice thick by now.
Then I would slap his arse harder again.
“Oh, Jesus!” Josh would squirm just a little. “Please.”
I’d smack him harder.
“Oooooohhh!” Josh would squirm some more. “Oh… yes.”
I’d feel him starting to go hard on my thigh. I’d bring my hand down hard. “Thwack!”
“Oh, fuck me Jesus.”
I’d hold my hand on his arse, rubbing my palm around on his cheeks, letting my fingers slide into his arse crack. He’d squirm around under the pressure of my hand. He’d be thick and hard on my thigh. He’d rub his hardon into my leg as he writhed about.
“Oh please, I HAVE been a very naughty boy…”
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