Getting My Blue Blanket

Oh, I thought I'd feel better today. I thought I'd take today off as an indulgence, you know, just for the hell of it, the last hurrah, just because I could, as I lay in bed listening to radio national waiting until the clock struck 9am. But no, I feel like crap. Hot, cold. Hot, cold. Headache, tired. Sweaty, like an old man's crotch. Semi blocked ears. A little dizzy, some what unsteady on my feet. Bloody hell! I'm lighting the fire and getting my blue blanket to pull over the top of me.

It's no fun being home if you really are sick. Goodness me, everybody knows that.

And oddly, I'm really hungry.

Then I went to get my muesli from the kitchen bench, where it had been soaking for a while. I picked it up, turned to come back to my computer, misjudged the kitchen doorway and the bowl smashed into the wall and my muesli tipped all down the front of my dressing gown and all over the floor.

I wanted to cry. (sad face)

I trip over going out to get wood. I bang my head on the mantel piece after I light the fire. I misjudge opening the door and bash myself in the chest. I trip on my shoe laces as I head out the front door to get lunch.

I went down to Smith Street to get a pork roll and an apple cake. Jumper, big jacket, scarf, beanie, wrapped up tight. The man standing next to me at the counter, appeared slow, simple, his bottom jaw jutted out further than his top and his nose, kind of, pushed down onto his top lip, as I gaze at him in profile. He spoke as though he had no palette, completely through his nose.

The girl behind the counter was wide-eyed at me gawking at the gimp and I turn my head.

The guy on the other side was wearing the back of his jeans low and he had two of the most luscious round arse cheeks encased in the thin cotton of his black jocks.

The same girl behind the counter brakes into a faint smile as she catches me fully checking out the other guys arse.

If I'd felt better, I may have laughed. I stare ahead until she asks me if I'm right.

As I came out of the bakery, there was a woman walking towards me with a cigarette in her mouth she was about to light. Oh ple4ase don't I thought. As I got next to her, she lit the cigarette in a cloud of smoke, then she turned and proceeded to walk in my direction, just in front of me. Oh no, I thought. I was glad that her jeans sagged making her arse look misshapen and unattractive, it seemed only fitting. The thought of the smell of that cigarette made me feel sick, so I crossed Smith Street to get away from her. And, as if instant karma for my thoughts, the next thing, she had crossed the road and was practically next to me again. Fuck it! So, I crossed back across the road. Guess what? She did too. It was like she was doing it on purpose. I was so close to standing on the footpath and screaming,

GET AWAY FROM ME!

My patience isn’t so good, when I'm not feeling so well. Fortunately, she turned off into a shop, or something. I was just plotting her death, you know, pushing her out into the traffic with a banshee scream, or something, when I looked around and she was gone. Ponder? Maybe there is a god?

There you go. I wiped my palms together, several times, slap, slap. I looked around and nodded my head. I win, real, or imagined. Filthy smokers, they should all die, you know, since I've stopped. I smiled, I felt the creases in my cheeks.