Sunday, a slow start, coffee in bed and morning chat. I’m sensing I am not chipper and it turns out I am right. Over a bacon sandwich late breakfast it became apparent that my internal organs were planning and escape via my nostrils. I’m not impressed and neither was my youngest daughter on a face-to-face call. Sniffing is not the most attractive accompaniment to a family call. I ransack the house looking for Actifed. It’s the one thing I have found for me that staves off the symptoms of a cold, crucial it dries my nose. I look in all my places of Actifed storage and find none. The only conclusion is that I have run out of this magic compound. This is a pain in the arse as it means going out to the major shopping complex which has a Boots.
I get my partners car out and drive off to the shopping centre thinking it is only going to take me a few minutes. How wrong can you be. It seems the world has decided that it want to go shopping (obviously the misery of recession hasn’t quite caught hold yet) the traffic was horrendous. Not only was everyone out stocking up before tomorrow’s funereal but the traffic flow system has an exit from the new part of the shopping complex exiting out into the traffic flow that is queuing to get into the complex. Its traffic flow madness, God knows what pimply trainee civic engineer was responsible for this. I get more irritated as my handkerchief gets more and more saturated and my sneezing increases. I finally get into park and cut through Primark (that’s an experience) to get to Boots. A friendly (to start with) chap helps me find the Actifed, however when I try to buy two packets, he refuses to sell me two. I’m an adult for fuck sake but I am clearly not to be trusted not to top myself. A classic case of how the minority screw it for the rest of us. I take my single packet (not a single suicidal thought in my head, more homicidal actually) and return to the car. The drive home went much quicker. Once home I take a tablet of the lethal drug and settle down to watch a rugby match on the TV. Serendipitously Tesco deliver at half time, which means I can get it all squirrelled away before the second half kicks off. The rugby finishes and my nose is now dry but at the expense of a certain cognitive buzz. I settle down to a football match and once again I am interrupted by a deliver. This time it is Amazon with my super glue. I set about mending the broken glass droplet that is part of the dining room light fitment. The operation is successful and a couple of hours later I return it to its hook on the array.
My partner returns from the gym and in due course my eldest daughter returns from the local Bird Garden, where her favourite Cockatoo lives. The evening starts with tea and more pre funereal TV followed by Ridley and me drafting the blog. It will be an early night for me in the spare room. One thing I did do in a moment was to scribble short poem, as follows:
They call my poetry Boney. No flesh No story. I open my eyes, There is light And wonder. This is Enough.
I think it was prompted by the poetry books I bought yesterday and my internal conversations about trying to get poetry published. Either that or the rejection is beginning to get to me.
