Bugs! Bugs everywhere! Oh dear heck! It’s like a nightmare. My total moth kill rate is into double figures. The moths are consigned to my room. And they’re not normal moths. They keep coming back to life. I keep hitting, they keep surviving. They come in my room, expecting coolness when it’s already cold outside. Why am I being attacked by a gang of moths who seem to have the mental capacity of a spoon? It’s not just moths. We have a fly problem downstairs. I walked into the living room at one point during this week to see a relative on his knees with a fly swatter feverishly batting the ground. This house is like that movie A Bug’s Life, only much worse. If that’s even possible.
I’m really terrified that I’ll wake up one morning and the bugs would’ve consumed the entire house except for me, lying there on the ground stark naked because the moths thought it would be a lark to take them as well. It doesn’t matter, though, because I will win this fight. Even if I have to resort to using a flamethrower.
I know my bug problem seems insignificant to you, but I’ve put up with an army of flies and a squadron of moths this week, plus I’ve also thrown a spider out of a window (don’t even get me started on the spiders). I think that demonstrates bravery on my part. Because I’m not brave, but even I have to admit that at times during our lives, we have to face our fears. From bugs to angry drunken sweary iPad throwing beret wearing midget gypsies. Those are personal examples, but the point stands.
Of course, we all suffer pain, no matter how stupid it is.
Take my dad for example. He was helping mum this week to do some general jobs around the school she works at as head caretaker. In one morning, she trapped his hand in a filing cabinet, hit him with a hammer and scolded him. And that was before he tripped over a roll of carpet that wasn’t behind him one minute but was the next. He didn’t see it as he fell over it. He hurt his hand. Yes, it was mum again. Funny, that. Mind you, it wasn’t as funny as that time he fell off a bouncy castle. Mere weeks before his 61st birthday. I think I’m beginning to see whom I get my injury-blighted existence from.
As inevitable as being jilted by every dame I desire, injury befell me this week. This time it was my knee. It went all funny, and that upset me because it wasn’t my dickey knee. It was Alfred, the good one. It did that weird thing where you twist it awkwardly and it jolts, jerks, cracks and pops all at the same time. It feels like your veins are twisting and distorting. I have no idea what that is all about. It happens to us all, though. But have any of us ever stopped to think what is actually happening? I Googled it. But Google didn’t know. I didn’t know what to do next. Seriously. What does one do when Google doesn’t have the answer? The whole of humanity just seems to collapse, like the righteousness of a fallen angel.
It wasn’t all a week of misery, though. I got a watch. Yes, I know. I can hardly believe it either. The excitement then, as now, was palpable. It was a late birthday present from my brother. Really nice watch. I love it. I didn’t have a watch before. Actually, that’s not true. I did have one, but it died most ungracefully a few years back.
The year was 2004. Boring year. It’s the four. It’s such a dull number. I don’t remember much about 2004, but I know I went on holiday. Can’t remember exactly where, though. Somewhere near Spain. It was an island, if that helps the imagery. I got a very nice, simple watch. White face, black old-fashioned numbers, a black leather strap. It was my first watch and she served me well for several years. But then a crack appeared in the thick glass face, which got progressively worse. It’s time keeping started to slow, even with a new battery. Then the strap broke. I did the logical thing and stapled the two halves of a tiny bit of Velcro onto the two strap ends. I carried on using it like that until it just didn’t work no more. I’m glad to have a watch back in my life. My right wrist was getting lonely and jealous at my left wrist’s bracelet.
Of course, that would normally be that. But it would be remiss of me not to mention analogue television being turned off this week in my town. Television means much to someone like me and having 48 years of history annihilated by a heartless flick of a switch really hurt. We’ve gone digital. Despite this, I’ll never forget the good old days of analogue. It had a heart. It had a character. It had a soul. Like everything old. All it is now is clean, modern and shiny. It’s lost its life. And that makes me sad.
Nostalgia is a funny thing. You think about the past more clearly the older you get and this makes you look to the future with a wry smile. Because that’s the same wry smile that you had 20 years previously about the upcoming 20 years that you’re now looking back on with nostalgia.
Time is a funny old thing, isn’t it?
“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter”, said American author and humorist Samuel ‘Mark Twain’ Clemens (1835-1910).
Peace Out :|:
(I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. To do so, you can leave a comment by pressing the bubble on the top right of this post and scroll to the bottom of the new page to where it says ‘leave a reply’. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks)