... but I stopped. Now I'm a dad, and may blog again...

Sunday, January 09, 2011

170: I tell you what

My feet are worn down to blunt stumps of bone and gristle, coated in a thin broken film of lumpy skin.  My toes break and splinter with every step and my shattered ankles wobble then lock.  So that’s me; how are you doing?  Oh, great, I’m glad to hear it.  Listen, sorry about all that moaning, hope you don’t mind.  And don’t worry about my feet.  I was exaggerating; they aren’t that bad really.  Nothing a last-resort transplant won’t fix anyway.  In the meantime I’ll take a leaf out of the Riverdancers book and dunk my legs in a bin full of iced water (with ice).  While I’m at it I’ll just pop a plastic bag over my head and tape it shut... just to see what happens.

Erm, anyway.  What would you like to talk about today?  I tell you what; why don’t you do the talking and I’ll just listen.  I really don’t have the spark to think or talk, but I can nod appreciatively at occasional intervals and grunt in agreement as I stare uncomprehending at a picture emitting box in the corner of the living room.  As you talk I feel a glob of dribble beginning to slime its way out of my mouth and down the side of my chin.  My arms are now flaccid and dead so all I can do is hope you don’t notice my drooling decrepitude.

As an aside I just had a thought, an actual thought.  I think it was a memory.  It’s my dad; I am young.  I am nagging or relentlessly asking for something.  I can’t remember what it is.  He won’t let me have or do whatever it is.  Then he raises my hopes by saying, “I tell you what”.  Oh, I think, I’m about to be allowed to have/do whatever it is.  “I tell you what... Shut up.”  Hopes come crashing down.  It will (whatever it is) not be mine.  My pain is pathetic.  Time after time I expected the phrase I tell you what to precede a treat or reward, and time after time I was disappointed.  Why did I always associate the phrase with positives, and why never learn the reality?  It can’t be that I am some sort of optimist or one of those horrible people who smiles.

Actual though run out of juice; no more thought left in the tank.  End of aside.  Back to sitting empty-headed and dreaming about the walls, and watching the fairies and inhaling and exhaling.  And inhaling again.  And repeat.  And rest.  Sorry, did you say something?  I was listening, I just faded out for a moment.  Of course I did; you said something about hairdryers, or hairdressers, or dresses, or stresses, or step classes, or caresses, or canapés, or can I please... something or other.  Sorry but I’m having a sit down; you’ll have to do it yourself.  Whatever it was.  I can’t reach my tea, can you move it closer.  Thanks.

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