Ever since I started my current job, I have not had a single day off through sickness. I have maintained this achievement through four years of employment. And this track record currently shows no signs of slowing either. Mainly cos I only seem to be ill when I am off work anyway. Like today. I am lying bed-bound with the turmoil-ridden stomach which broke out last night.
It is truly sod’s law that I am ill on the bank holiday break I have been looking forward to for weeks. It is sod’s law that we are having the brightest and warmest weather of the year so far when I am stuck in bed clutching my stomach, whilst beads of sweat glitter my body. It is sod’s law that my stomach is so incapable of accepting any content on my pre-arranged pub night. And it’ll be sod’s law when I find myself out of bog paper after yet another unprompted hot geyser erupts from my rear end.
It also seems like sod’s law that my last illness also befell me on Christmas Eve, yet another calendar holiday. I am starting to believe that maybe Jesus is punishing me for my atheist stance, by making me ill exclusively on his religious festival dates. Still, at least I got to do some reading, and when I felt intellectually sated, I had good “illness excuses” to watch some bubblegum television. It looks like Ken Barlow is looking further afield than his own wife in the Coronation Street omnibus; whilst his son Peter cannot seem to find much luck in the love department. “When am I going to find my Deidre?” he asks his father. I couldn’t empathise with his simple, honest plea enough; which arguably transcended humble soap dialogue to give a broader metaphor for the existential crisis of all human life. In a way I suppose we are all looking for our Deidre. We all want someone who is always there for us. We all want a dependable soul to forever quench our lonely existence. We all want someone to greet us when we arrive home. We all want someone to pass the time with on a longstanding contractual basis. Preferably someone who has a 40 a day gravel-pit voice and a neck which resembles a small muddy country track only frequented by a series of heavy four wheel drive vehicles. I know that’s what I’m looking for. She may not be much to look at, or even listen to, or smell (given the amount she seems to smoke per episode); but she’s at least the sort of woman who would ensure my toilet paper supplies are fully stocked. And at this moment in time, that’s the prime quality I’d be settle for in anyone.
No comments:
Post a Comment