Here’s the story of a radiator, thoughts, and nibbling.
I’m confident that the bathroom is the source of life’s greatest moments. Think about the wonderful time you spend there in the morning. It’s in those moments you realize who you are. Nowadays, it’s the only time you get to spend with your brain. All the noise and clutter vanishes and suddenly you hear your thoughts. It’s often as if a parent has arrived home early and has discovered their child playing strip poker with the neighbour’s daughter.
You sit proudly on the throne each morning scanning the room for topics of thought. Most of those thoughts are occupied with cleaning. The bathtub is a mess. There is black stuff all over it. I don’t know what that is. People have told me it can make you delirious as it isn’t very good for you. I laughed in their faces as I stormed off and marched into the bathroom with a sponge to get busy scrubbing off the black stuff. But when I got near it, it told me to sod off. Delirious? People don’t know what they’re talking about.
I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with bathrooms, in particular, the radiator. That radiator is a particularly unhappy place for me. Mind you, radiators have never been that pleasant for me. One fell on me once as I was walking by. I swear that’s true. I think they’re trying to kill me. The mould told me that so it must be true.
Behind the bathroom radiator is an accumulation of dust. And accumulation is a colossal understatement. I’ve lost many things down the back of it. I’m always too afraid to put my hand down there. This week I lost my comb down there. I wasn’t having that. I love my comb. I won it in a cracker. I get most of my stuff from crackers.
I was in the bathroom fishing around for my comb for one hour. To say I was relentless in my hunt for my beautiful comb is an understatement. It’s plastic and cheap. One of the plastic bristles has fallen to its doom. I don’t know how that happened. I think I may have nibbled it in my sleep. I nibble quite a lot in my sleep. There’s a lamp next to my bed with its cord draped over the table it sits on. Considering my penchant for nibbling, I’m surprised I’m still alive.
I threw all manner of things down the back of the radiator to get my comb out. I lost two good rulers. Poor things. I got angry and started kicking the radiator. One could argue this was the last action of a desperate man. One who would argue this has clearly never met me. I hadn’t even broken out the hammer yet.
Yes, it was just a comb. But it was my comb. I keep everything I buy until it is so useless even the recycling Al Gore worshipping hippies tell me to burn it. And even though the chances of me seeing my comb again were a million to one, heck, I would take those odds. I would get my comb back. Even if it meant I broke my foot kicking a radiator.
The kicking didn’t work. No idea why. Perfectly logical. So I went to get my baseball bat. Seriously. With one foot out of the door, I looked back and noticed the radiator was on hooks. I tried to lift the radiator but I felt the dust behind. It’s all clumped together in huge cotton candy like balls. Putting my hand in that was like trying to birth a sheep that was struggling. I still can’t look at my hand.
The comb was steadfast. Stuck on some wires. Pipes. Something like that. I’m not a plumber. So I’ll just use general jargon. Radiator thingymabobby gubbins. I backed out of my lifting attempts and broke down in a metaphorical flood of tears. I just had gotten out of the shower when I lost my comb, and there I was, metaphorically crying sitting down with my back against the bathtub. Contemplating life without my comb. We had such good times. All that… combing. Combing of hair. Combing of my arm hair. Men do that. For fun. It tickles. Oh God, the way she used to tickle me. Never again. Well, never again until Monday when I’ll buy a box of crackers and spend the whole day pulling them by myself. Or I could just buy a comb. But what’s life without whimsy? Oh, my poor comb. And to think, I never even got a photo.
My brain finally woke up. As it was playing The Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel, a thought suddenly occurred to me. Kicking! No, wait, I tried that. A longer ruler! No, wait, too many had already been lost. My hand? Yes. The only option. A look of determination sweated its way across my face as I rolled up my sleeves, inhaled a deep breath and shoved my hand so far into that radiator’s dusty sheep like orifice that it made my eyes water. I screamed out a war cry as I grabbed my comb and pulled her free.
Was the trauma over? Not for me. I stood up and banged my head off the bathroom cabinet. Dizzy, in agony, in a flurry of emotions, I fell to the ground. Head lightly bleeding, comb in one hand, my thoughts negative as I lay there seemingly on the verge of unconsciousness. What if I die? I wasn’t concerned because of the ridiculousness of the cabinet killing me, oh no. It was because of the comb. Imagine the scene when the police turn up. Head bleeding from a razor like cut, comb in my hand. They’ll think the comb did it. My lovely comb. It’s image forever tarnished. How ironic.
Honestly, I’m amazed how Shakespearean my life often is.
I’m fine, by the way. All that genuinely happened. I have a bump on my head, a hand I cannot look at and a comb I cannot use because of my bumpy head. But I’m fine. I’m alive. I made it through the week. None of that is important, though. What is important is that my comb is okay. And that, my friends, is the true meaning of Easter.
British-American publisher, playwright, poet, literary and social critic, Thomas Stearns Eliot (1888-1965), once said: “I will show you fear in a handful of dust”.
Peace Out :|:
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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:
To Contrive & Jive
What Is Your Favourite Vegetable?
Pray For Mojo
(Note; image created by me; copyrighted 2013)