There’s a game I’m sure we’ve all played and yet not a single one of us would even admit to it. I don’t even think one can call it a game since it’s rather more of an indulgence. There purely to entertain. For pleasure. For boredom. Because we can.
You have your favourite television show theme. We all do. Said tune is so catchy, you find yourself singing it in the shower or on the bus on the way to work. You sit down each week earnestly waiting for the iconic theme to kick in. One week, you sit down as normal, only this week, you feel compelled to hit mute and give it a go with your own voice as the credits are happening. It’s something you yearn for the whole week prior. I recommend getting your friends involved and getting a human orchestra going. It’s huge fun.
Of course, this fun didn’t last. It was quickly deadened by a moth problem I’ve been beleaguered with. I’ve had an infestation of moths this week, and that isn’t good, because moths frighten the bejesus out of me. It’s just the way they linger in the air. Ooh, it’s so creepy. And I can’t get rid of them. There are two stains on the ceiling that used to be moths and I feel queasy every time I try to clear the stains. Just going near them is the end of the endeavour for me. Honestly, my idea of hell is The Birds but with moths instead of birds.
There was this one moth. Frightful little bugger. I used a nursery rhyme book with the intention to whack the moth to oblivion, but all I managed to do was crush it slightly. Because I’m incredibly weak. So I still had this ‘huge’ moth on my wall to deal with.
You can imagine the site. I got a piece of toilet paper. Then I put another piece of toilet paper on top. And then another. And another. Eventually, I had ten sheets of toilet paper in a shaking hand with my sweat indistinguishable from my tears. I bravely swiped the brute from the wall and ran like hell to the bin. But there was no bag! It was like an episode of 24, it was. So there I was, stuck in the middle of the room holding a huge dead moth, hopping from one foot to the other, whimpering fanatically with tears cradling the bottom of my eyes. Oh boy. It was a dark, dark time in my life.
Of course, you’d expect the rest of my week to be rather rosier. Think again. It’s been a pleasant change of pace to read about my life, week-in-week-out, without comical injury, and I was hoping that Mother Nature had finally dealt me some luck that had eradicated this hurt. Hmm. I don’t know why I thought that.
Take the last Thursday for example. I mean, only I could get out of bed, trip over an aerial cable with my right foot and be hurtled through the air face first into a rather large metal box. I miraculously stayed upright only to howl in agony as the metal box went tumbling onto my left foot. I started to collapse to the floor, in immense pain. I tried to grab something to halt my fall. The only thing in sight was the end frame of my bed. This is also metal. And old. And very sharp. I cut my hand on it. I mean, honestly, why is my life like a Mr. Bean sketch?
I’d hoped this incident was the last of my trauma but, as I lay on the carpet of my bedroom floor in a ball and whimpering, I noticed a few little red dots on my arm that look like mosquito bites. Now, this would be fine and make a great deal of sense if I lived in, say, the Amazon. But here in Middlesbrough in the northeast of England? I’m not so sure. You know, I swear it was the moths. I think they’re trying to eat me.
God, how my hand hurts. And my foot.
“Life itself is a quotation”, said Argentine short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986).
Peace Out :|:
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