I even fell back to sleep and dreamed some more. One dream was that I was walking in some mountainous Australian bush land. I was in a car, which Perry was driving, and we were driving up and down bush paths looking for the party of people we were supposed to meet up with.
Then Sam nudged me. The world spins back to reality, as my eyes roll back around to the openings in my face like poker machines.
“I’m really awake now, come on get up,” said Sam.
I wasn’t ready, I was still too relaxed. “Just five more minutes, please.”
“I see.” Laughed. “You leave me no choice,” I hear Sam responded with.
I brace myself, this could mean anything.
He turned on some instructional film for the Samsung 7 inch tablet which he is threatening to buy. However, he had to get up and get his iPad – his iPad3 that he has just purchased, so why does he need a 7 inch Samsung tablet, I ask you? – in the process of which he tickled my feet. I’m sure absentmindedly. Now, as we know, having my feet tickled is a supreme joy, one of the great things in life, better than sex and fresh figs. And he had set the “feet tickling wheels in motion,” I didn’t care what he played. In fact, I was more than accommodating to position myself in whatever optimum position was required.
He lay up against the pillows on the wall, I spun around. He lay sideways in “the sleeping” position, I spun around again. He lay the other way, I spun around 180 degrees no worries.
Junkie, heroin… feet getting tickled.
Sunday or no Sunday, we were out of bed before midday. It’s been a long time since I slept until the afternoon.
Shane wasn’t seen until late afternoon, he drank a whole bottle of vodka and however many cocktails. He would tell us later that the surprise of the night was two hours singing karaoke in a stretched Hummer with 10 maggotted, screaming chicks. “I don’t feel well,” he said.
Sam and I cooked up a big breakfast, sausage, Nunki (A fat girlfriend of Sam's) eggs with shallots, hash browns and tomatoes. We are trying alternatives to my standard issue muesli, at Sam’s encouragement.
“This is fat food, all of this,” I said. “None of this is endorsed by the heart foundation.”
Sam shrugged.
Then it was “assume the weekend morning position”, on the floor back to the couch laptops/ipads on the coffee table. You know, once it would have been a copy of the Age and the Herald Sun
Despite, being told that I didn’t want to sit and be continually drawn into China’s got talent YouTube, and being told to put his head phones on, Sam couldn’t help himself, declaring every second minute that “I just had to watch this one in particular.” So I spent most of the morning still watching fat Chinese/Taiwanese/British/Filipino chicks sing Whitney Houston... often badly.
Or those groups in glow in the dark suits dancing around in the dark, making inexplicable moves across the ceiling.
Some how Sam ended up sitting right next to me on the floor at the coffee table, YouTube blaring, no head phones, pulling my head around by the chin if I dared to take my attention away from whatever it was he was showing.
At 14.15 we were still sitting on the lounge room floor talking about lunch, unshowered. As the sun shone and the sky radiated blue, Sam begun to suggest we need to eat. The idea of food is never far away for that boy, where I can just well, as he would say, piss the day away without thinking about it.
It was a lovely spring day outside, just gorgeous. I could hear the mosquito engines of the formula one cars clearly, more clearly than for any other year, I think. In previous years, you could just hear them occasionally, vaguely in the background noise. But this year, it was like they were just over in the next burb.
We went to buy pork rolls. We bought apple cake and apple Danish as well. We were like kids at the cake counter with our eyes open wide like boiled lollies on sticks. Well, if you are going to be fat boys.
Then we went to the supermarket for the tea that we had forgotten the last time we went to the supermarket, which is less than twenty four hours, hell, twelve hours, as going to the supermarket is one of Sam and my favourite things to do. We even joked as we headed in with our small bakery bags to buy the tea that we’d have to come back within a few hours to get the ingredients for dinner. We looked at each other and laughed and had a duh moment, jibing each other that these two fat boys could, if they tried really hard, actually, get it together to get the ingredients now and skip the next trip to Woolies. What would you call it? Master chef devotees? Piggies with baskets? Idiots! I’ve never been to the supermarket so much. I’ve never cooked so much.
Still, there is a certain joy strolling back in the sun with provisions purchased with nothing much else to do for the day but to cook it. It must have felt like that heading home from the hunt with the carcass of the wild deer slung over your shoulder, don’t you think?
We cooked risotto, chicken, mushroom and asparagus. Lovely. It only seems to be chicken and mushroom risotto now a days. I’m good at making it, though. I never understand why people think it is difficult, or there is some great mystery to it? I tell you I don’t, it’s as easy as anything. If you have enough skill to use a spoon, you can make risotto.
Barry Humphries is 78? Wow? How did he get that old? The interview with him, Edna and Lez was clever.
(I thought Barry Humphries would be amused being sandwiched between asparagus risotto and stinky piss)
Not long after there is no mistaking that you have eaten asparagus. David always says he loves it, but he likes all the stinky juices spilling from the lower orifices.
Lots of gay guys do, they like the secretions.
No we’re not all good manners and well groomed hair, after all.
“Feltch my arse, baby.”
We watched Science and Stephen Hawkins. Oh, it was so medical. Brrrr! OMG! I spent sometime with my hand over my eyes, especially the breast implants section. Why is it that “they” think we want to see those jelly bags being popped out all bloody from incisions under the tits on women’s chests?
Still, it is my antidote to the worldwide news service, the tale of misery news. Scientific work is the happy news, the small ray of hope, the small glint of the positive in the beat me with a huge fucken stick current headlines.
The evening slipped away.
“Do you have to go to the salt mines tomorrow, babe?”
“Get fucked.”
It makes me laugh. Of course, this time next week, he’ll be able to lean over and say the same thing to me.
“Boo Hoo.”
No, it will be good. It will be fun going back to work.
We went to bed and watched Stephen Fry’s languages. Oh Stephen, the lost languages. Iris, Basque, and some French language. I mean it is all very lovely to keep traditions going and old ways in practice, but I couldn’t help but think did I really care?
Apparently, in the next one hundred years English will merge with Chinese and we will all be speaking Chinglish.
I can’t help but wonder, when I listen to people speaking in foreign tongues, what English would sound like if I couldn’t understand it.
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