A Paintbrush and a Party.

I tried my hand at painting this week. A whole picnic bench, two flower boxes and a coffin sized flower box. What? Nothing suspicious at all about that simile. I was hoping dad would give me a hand. “So”, he said, “we’ll paint the bench, paint the flower boxes and give them a second coat because it’s quick drying”. Then he buggered off. I tell you, how painters and decorators do that for a living is anyone’s guess. My left arm has not been this dead since that bus hit it. I couldn’t even use my right hand because it has no grip. But it was peaceful and relaxing painting in the sun. It was 15 degrees Celsius, don’t you know. Which is hot for us Englanders. I haven’t been that hot since I woke up in that sauna.

I don’t often go out. The world’s a scary place. It shouldn’t be scary, but it is. It’s worse for me, because things that don’t scare everyone else scare the bejesus out of me. Fear descended and metastasized this week as I went to get mum a card and some chocolates. My heart was racing and my hands were shaking. I was very sweaty. In my head a million thoughts about what could go wrong. It felt at times like people were watching me. It was really bad. I hadn’t realized how bad my introversion had gotten. I tried not to think about it but it was difficult. I felt very self-conscious when I went home because I had to sit on the bus smelling like a cheese sandwich that had been out in the sun for three weeks.

Then there was Saturday.

Don’t you hate it when your parents say you look like a bum? No? Just me then? Oh, that’s quite depressing. It could be worse. My dad only realized that I was left handed the other day. He saw me eating my Weetabix with a spoon in my left hand and said, “That’s strange, why are you doing that?” I don’t think my parents like me very much (sniff, sniff). Dad told me I needed to dress smartly and get ready for a party on Saturday. I looked at my delightfully dull range of clothes in my wardrobe and quickly came to the conclusion that my scruffy shades of grey wouldn’t go down well at a wedding party. It was beside the point because I really didn’t want to go to that party and I feared it would be yet another night of sitting in a corner by myself getting deafened by this awful thumping modern music drinking my Coke, occasionally having to talk to some relative about the nothing that fills my life. That’s always the most awkward moment. Primarily because I only see most of my relatives at funerals so the mood when we meet away from funerals is generally quite depressing because all we have in common is… funerals.

The party was rather dull. I just sat there for a few hours rather bored. Although it was something different. I usually spend my Saturday’s tidying up and getting increasingly full from a chocolate overload. I admit, it’s an unusual combination, but really think about it: you’ve spent the best part of the afternoon tidying up and then you turn on the radio and hear the local team lose because they suck. What better way to cheer yourself up on the night, then, than some Dairy Milk? They say chocolate is never a solution to anything in life but I’d like to point out that it always is. Well, only if you’re like me, and you eat and eat but never gain weight. I’ve weighed nine stones for five years. It really is a wonderful life. Until you find yourself stuck at a party you don’t want to be at with a Human emotion I feel is rather irrelevant: boredom. Why do we feel boredom? How was that ever evolutionarily necessary? How does boredom come into survival? Pointless.

I hate nights like that party. Young hoodlums moving in what passes for dancing these days whilst listening to what passes for music these days, engaging in alcoholic frivolity and then engaging in other activities. Whatever happened to staying at home, having a nice glass of water whilst reading a good book and then having a nice and early night? The world sucks. I know. I’m an old man. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Yes, you’re right, I’m in one of those funny moods.

Of course, all of this is irrelevant. It’s Mother’s Day. Without her, I wouldn’t be here. I think. People tell me that but I don’t see what she has to do with the stork. Mmm, maybe she has to sign the release papers. Either way, it’s motherhood day. God bless them, each and every one. I might be getting that last line mixed up with A Christmas Carrel. Yes, carrel. It’s another version. It’s about Santa Claus going to a library to read up on the meaning of Christmas. Sigh. Nobody will ever get that joke.

‘A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother’.

Happy Mother’s Day :|:

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