Hot and Sticky

I was awake at 8am. I’d been dreaming about schools, no country roads, no tracks and… oh… um… (Sam has now put a computer game on the TV and I can’t think) people were trying to get somewhere, me included. I think there were muddy roads and difficulty travelling.

I got out of bed, the light was still shadowy. I bent over to pick up my laptop from the desk and I involuntarily farted. Burble burble.

“Lovely.” Sam’s voice broke the quiet.

Oops. He was awake now, I thought. So, I let the rest of the fart go. It burbled long and low.

“Just lovely,” said Sam. 

Way to start a Sunday, Christian, I think. The thought makes me smirk. (but you know, if you smirk in the dark at a fart and no one sees you, did you really smirk at all?) Farts are funny, it is a universal truth.

I don't know what to write? I sit there, but my mind is blank. It is a quiet Sunday morning. Sam and Buddy and Missy are sitting next to me. I adore them, but they are not conducive to writing.

Buddy tried to play with Missy and then Missy headed into other rooms with a cat harumph.

We watched cats doing funny things on YouTube.

I made toast and coffee.

We did our chores, of course we did, it is Sunday, they are all done. Sam did the dusting, he always seems keen. I did the vacuuming, I never seem keen. What is that saying, I have it on my fridge, a mind is a terrible thing to waste on house work. The kitchen is clean, the clothes are washed, the back yard is swept. Good for us.

It is overcast and humid, dark and sticky, grey and thick. Lady Gaga sings Applause.

I walk to the supermarket to get milk. 

It was raining as I headed off. My old legal firm umbrella is the umbrella of choice, it’s a golf sized umbrella, it keeps me the driest. I guess, the company had to be good for one thing. That is the only thing about carrying that umbrella, is that it is advertising the “hell” company. I want to get a black texta and write, is a shit firm, and, is a shit place to work, graffiti style on the white panels. 

Ah, the supermarket on Sunday morning, everyone looks a little bleary-eyed.

I got port wine jelly and blueberries. I also got whole meal bread, thickly sliced for toast.

On the way back, I saw an abandoned bag of supermarket shopping, followed by a smashed pair of sunglasses, followed by a discarded pair of, somewhat, stretched pink knickers. My mind reeled with plot lines. 

Her sunglasses were ripped from her face, she never saw that hand coming. Her shopping was knocked from her hands, she was shocked. She was bent over the brick fence of the nearest house, her birthday present knickers were pulled down her slim legs. 

“No,” she called out. 

There was two of them, bigger and easily able to over power her. She didn’t stand a chance. She cried out for help... but none came

A bit further along, Awesome Dog was sitting on the veranda of his student house, in his canvass pants, with a discernible bulge in the front, his cute blond-hair-framed face, flushed red, with ever so slightly wonky eyes, he’d choofed already this morning, even I could see that.  

He thumbs up’d and muttered, “G’day mate.” I didn’t have Buddy with me, so he didn’t smile broadly and say, “Awesome Dog.” Gorgeous though, he is gorgeous, with his blond hair and his blue, er, red, er, blue eyes. 

“Hey?” I say. 

A bit further along and not far from home, a strapping builder crouched down in front of me and started doing something with the floor of the house he is renovating, facing me was his tan pants, the elastic top of his white undies and the delicate hairs of the top of his furry arse crack.

Working on a Sunday, I think. Good to see. So much of him to see, too. I’m sure I prefer him from this angle than any other. That bought a smile to my face.

After that, it was just a lazy Sunday, for what Sundays are truly meant. The day of rest, but not because some mythical god did I whole lot of supernatural stuff and then was too buggered to do any more. What, he created universes, and civilisations, and eco systems and species and worlds, but by Sunday he couldn’t be fagged? No, that doesn’t make any sense.

No, a much more believable explanation was that Aunt Violet made scones and cakes and after we’d finished filling our fat faces with them, we just had to rest. Much more believable.