Saturday, 29 August 2009

The Sunday road home from the beach is one that I have only navigated. Never driven, as I do not own a coupe. However I now find myself driving here, although alone; My partner driving the continent, whilst I relive cruises that we have taken. The stereo is playing music that, whilst in my collection, I have never listened too. And I'm enjoying the summer evening, ripping through high granite rock laden road, and winding, dusky, coastal lanes.

Come Monday, the road I find myself driving is the one I have driven many a time. 79.56 miles. Leaning to that place that people go to do that activity one assumes is called work, the same activity I do, merely to fill time. The same happens on Tuesday. And sadly on both days, nothing of true significance happens.

On Wednesday, I have guests. For whom I conjure Tomato Terrine, and summer leaf salad whilst we recline in the vegetable garden, under the heavy branches of the apple trees, drinking Pinot Grigio. Conversing of the summers events, or lack there of, and where the four months have gone. By Thursday the conversation has turned to love, and the scene is now a coastal walk. One I have taken many times, and find quite a bore; But what kind of host would have guest from the city and not boast the fragile, red cliff, coastline.

Late Friday evening, it is brought to my attention that I have no offering, gift or otherwise for the event that I am to attend the following eve. And subsequently spend much of the night thinking. It's hard to by for a twenty one year old millionaire who has everything. Eventually under the strain of the week, and my two extremely taxing days of hard graft, I arrange a lunch date for Saturday, retire, and decide Laurent Pierre will have to suffice.

Friday, 21 August 2009

And it's really quite a tragic revelation. And perhaps I cannot continue. And perhaps now I'll end up typing to myself. Again.

My one and only loyal reader no longer exists...or so I'm told. Although this may very well be a hyperbolic fabrication, conjured by yours truly. Even still, this event has saddened me.

Or something.

I've still got the other four followers...right?

Sunday, 16 August 2009

And so actually having a job, or a reason to get up in the morning, other than housework, is actually pretty shit. This week I have started work in an operating theatre, and long story short, it's not half as exciting as it sounds.

My new daily routine is something like this:

0525 am : Wake up
0527 am : After a two minute lay in, walk to the kitchen
0527 - 0532 am : Eat breakfast - Usually carb orientated to ensure that I do not die at the wheel of my car, although this is probably better than actually pretending that you have to work for a living.
0532 - 0541 am : Shower, wash, brush teeth.

Somewhere between 0541 and 0601 am I manage to loose twenty minutes doing mindless things, occasionally exciting myself by doing a few chores. Such as emptying the dishwasher, cleaning the soap dish. Whatever.

Then I drive for an hour to the private hospital, in which I work. Where, signing in at exactly 0700 am, in the little red book, every morning. And changing into scrubs. I then sit down for the best part of two hours. (You'd think being paid to sit down was an all right way to make money. Well it isn't. I'd rather not make any at all, and lets face it, I don't need it.)

From 0900 am and for the rest of the day I usually entertain myself with the small talk of the various nurses, anesthetists and surgeons I work with. Typical questions asked include 'What do you do in the real world?' (you mean to say this isn't a real job?) and 'Are you working full time?'. To which usual the reply is Nothing of interest/Stay at home dad/International sock model/something vaguely entertaining and borderline true and 'No'. Which usually kills conversation, until around 1832 pm when I sign out, and skip off home.

Sunday, 9 August 2009

I'm sitting in the sun, wearing Christian Dior sunglasses and working on my non-existent Caucasian tan. Reading, thinking of a story I can conjure for you people; my four followers. When an apple falls from the tree. And three wasps angrily disperse from the windfall. Two stopping to engage in some kind of mating ritual, or wage war with one another. I can' tell. I watch for a moment, as they break, and then refocus my concentration. Causing a smile, to the simple pleasures in life, to leak from my lips. Then I bring a tan leather moccasin down on top of them. Silencing the commotion.

The story I think of, I don't really like to tell. Although I often amuse myself by telling twisted variations of it to strangers. It is from a time way before any inclination to live in Bristol ever existed, and way before I understood true happiness. It's a story that, I shall tell in due course.

I am interrupted from my book.Thoughts. Again. By my mother. Who offers a tumbler, and a bottle of Perrier, on ice, along with freshly baked pastries, and red summer berries. And I continue to read into chapter twenty seven, whilst life continues around me.

Monday, 3 August 2009

On Friday, I wake up about quarter to ten. Have breakfast, a couple of pieces of toast, have a cup of Miles blend tea, and open the post. I send three letters, and return four request forms. I use my typewriter to reply, and hope that the person opening the letters gets as excited as I, when I see that English typewriter font.

I clean the house, well the kitchen at least, and by clean I mean, wipe a few things with a cloth. I load the dishwasher. Take a drive to the store, and hand deliver a letter.

On Saturday I crash my car. Or rather someone crashes into me.

Naturally I seek the best medical advise and after being given the all clear, drown my sorrows with a bottle of Absolute. Which I find stops my lower jaw, and chin area, spasming almost completely.

I spend the best part of Sunday being sick (Which I've heard is great for the abs). I don't go to the gym, and I don't get out of bed. At three fifty one pm, once I am convinced that I am able to hold down food stuffs. And my lips have stopped burning, and the feeling has come back, and my face has stopped spasming and my neck feels...ok. I consume : Two packets of crisps, two bottles of Coke, Two tubes of gelatin sweets and a Marz Bar.

Then I go back to bed.

Sick count 7.5 (the last retch was half hearted).