Here’s the story of a kneecap, snow, and Hula Hoops.
Life without my left neecap is, at best, a tenuous and tremendously understated grasp of the gravitas of the situation. But babies manage just fine. Oh yes, we don’t have kneecaps until we turn six, so my argument is that if you bugger it up later in life, who gives a hoot? You were born that way. For some incomprehensible reason, doctors don’t buy this theory. But if you work, your employers are insistent you see one. A reassurance of your health. The trick with that is to see a different type of doctor for your dicky knee. A gynaecologist, for example. Doesn’t always work, though. I knew a guy who went once and they wanted to see him again.
It’s a strange sensation. The kneecap. Not the gyna- yes, you know what I mean. Is ‘strange’ the correct word for that? If someone were fiddling with my genitals, I wouldn’t call it ‘strange’. Curious, perhaps. Gleeful malfeasance. I don’t know if ‘fiddling’ is the right word, either. Unless ‘fiddling’ is ‘the act of playing a fiddle’. And I don’t know how one would find oneself in such a situation. That would certainly be a strange trip to the doctors.
What’s strange is walking with a kneecap bouncing around inside your skin. Rattling and crashing from one side to the other. It’s like a rhythm and soon you find yourself starting to do a jaunty hip wiggle to the beat. Then the kneecap starts to scrape mercilessly against the bone and you realize that it isn’t normal. You realize you shouldn’t be able to push the kneecap with your finger and watch it float across your knee juices like a boat on some mighty sea. Or a continent sailing across ooze that sloshes about like coconut milk in a maraca in full swing at The Carnival of Brazil.
You’d expect at this point curiosity to be surpassed by an urgent need to sort this nightmare out. Not so. At that moment, my curiosity was surpassed by a light-headed feeling, coupled with vomit rising in the back of my throat and a sudden un-tensioning of my colon.
The culprit was a slippy surface caused by the snow, a snippet of which can be seen in the picture above right. Oh yes, we’ve had the mewling tones of snow, that crusty, roguish, calumnious, malcontent, botch of nature. I anticipate every time that I’ll hate every single flake, yet I’m always fascinated and excited when it falls. It brings out the 10-year-old in me who never expected the next ten years to be so full of linear events occurring.
It was a slow decade. This one has started even slower. The way I’m going, by the time I hit 60, I fully expect to have stopped time. And then I can finally get started on those tax returns and spring-cleaning. What? I’m practical. What else would you do when time is frozen? Well, apart from the obvious. You know, putting people’s fingers up their noses. He, he, he.
I’ve carried on as usual this week. Put up with decorators staring at me through an open bedroom door since the door was drying and apparently, I’m really interesting. I’ve put up with small poodles attempting to attack me but sunk in the snow. Served them right. Stupid dogs, the work of Satan. I still wonder if they were ever found. I’ve also endured slipping repeatedly on ice and severing a large part of my knee by the sounds of it.
Also this week, whilst helping to put it up, I got a small cabinet in the face. That hurt. What was worse was what happened afterwards. The door flew open and delivered a second blow. I then dropped the cabinet sending it flying toward father’s knee. I would’ve loved to have helped him, but at that precise moment, I slipped off the sink I was precariously balancing on and went hurtling toward the floor. Mother wasn’t much use either, as she was also on the floor, curled up in a ball in hysterics. I don’t know if you’ve ever banged your head on a porcelain sink. You know those old cartoons with the birds going around in a circle above your head? That’s what happened to me. Except those birds were vultures. What made it worse was that all this happened in an en suit, a bathroom smaller than most under-the-stairs closets.
And I’m still hurting from the week before. I miss the mundane life.
I haven’t seen a doctor about the kneecap troubles. I hate doctors. I never go about anything. I figure, if I’m screwed at least I’ll die doing what I love: my usual routine. And if I’m not screwed, then it was a wasted bus fare that I could’ve spent on a packet of Hula Hoops. But don’t worry about me. My kneecap will be fine. I’m sure it’ll reattach itself one of these days.
American actor, film director, producer, writer and comedian, Carl Reiner (b. 1922) once said: “A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water”.
Peace Out :|:
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