Here’s the story of £168, mother and calamity.
Alas, I’m free of my cold! Hallelujah! Quick, go and hug a nun! Get out the maracas and shake them about! Go for a swim in a pool of sangria! It’s a magnificent day for all. Except I can’t swim, so swimming in a pool of sangria is ill advised. Although dying in sangria surrounded by nuns with maracas would make for a marvellous epitaph.
Not that I’m thinking about the end anymore. I’m at that phase after an illness where you’re still not quite right in the head department yet you just don’t care. You’re not fully well but you’re not fully ill anymore. A medical limbo. One of the few occasions where you’d actually attach a word such as limbo to me. A rarity along with other such words like hircine. Oh yes, hircine. I don’t believe anyone thinks I’m goat like. For example, goats are actually quite steady on their feet. Some can even cling onto mountainsides. Me, however. Well, I’m the man who fell out of an attic. I’m the man who nearly broke his arm after slipping on a slug. I’m the man who, whilst perfectly sober, ran into a stationary bus. I’m very un-hircine.
But surely calamity is the fault of the man. It’s surely not genetic. I mean, okay, I can recall many an occasion when father has missed a nail and hit his thumb. Or that time he lost control of the lawnmower. Oh, how we laughed. I mean, mother wasn’t best pleased when the mower ate her flowers, but still, oh, how we laughed.
Father hasn’t been very well this week. Spent some time in hospital, but he’s home now and doing well. Mother moved into the spotlight. And she proved that I was screwed into a life of calamity from day one, as she proved she shared the calamity hat with father.
The dinner was first in her line of fire. She doesn’t usually cook dinner. But with father ordered to a week of bed rest, it was down to the only other person in this house who knows how to cook. She burnt the dinner on Monday. And Tuesday. Wednesday was slightly charred but edible. Thursday was back to the burning. But she got the hang of it by Friday.
She moved onto the gardening. The lawnmower. Surely that wouldn’t go awry? Surely it wouldn’t run away again? Yes, you’re quite right. It didn’t. Lawnmowers have a box on the back of them where the grass goes. A box you need to attach to said lawnmower. A box mother forgot to attach. My reaction when she walked into the house covered head to toe in quite a few layers of grass was one of all-consuming joy. Bless her. She just stood there, like a gentle, little Green Giant. She sighed and from her mouth blew yet more grass.
Later that very same day, she visited father in the hospital. She fell on him. His problem is stomach related, so you can imagine the howls of anguish. She also knocked his grapes off the bed. In the manic confusion desperately trying to attempt to rectify the situation, she knocked out his IV line. Ma and pa have just celebrated 40 years of marriage. He was so happy to see her. After about 20 seconds, he was beginning to regret the visit.
Mother was back to her gardening the following day. She doesn’t garden. Father’s job that. Loves his garden. He really wanted to come home at that point. I have a feeling it was less to do with his intense hatred of hospitals and more to do with the thoughts of his wife ruing his garden.
Next job was cutting the trees. It didn’t start well. Whilst trying to get the ladders into the back garden, mother knocked father’s beloved hanging basket clean off the wall. Looks rather tragic now, actually. In case you’re wondering where I’ve been in this whole saga, I was still ill at this point and also bed-ridden. But the tree cutting day. I was much better that day. I could actually move for the first time in days. I was still rather ill, though. I managed to hold the ladders for mother. She fell off them. She started up the machine to saw at the thick conifer trunks and got a bit of a kick-back. Next thing I knew she was on the floor. But she’s made of stern stuff is ma. Got back up and wanted another crack at it. I managed to get her away from the conifers. I told her the dinner was burning.
I’ve felt awful this week not being able to help. I usually would. And as I said at the beginning, I’m now feeling well enough to shake a maraca nun goat sangria. Those words may be in the wrong order. But father is home, and hopefully all will be well again.
It’s certainly been a good few days for me. I just won £168. I could probably afford a pool full of sangria. But I’m a highly logical person, so I’ll just put it in the bank. The money, not the sangria. The cashier would think I was propositioning her if I tried to give her sangria.
I’m the type of the person who puts all the money I receive into my bank account. Give me some money, tell me to spend it on something nice, I’ll put it in the bank. I don’t know why. I never spend it. But after talking about goats today, I might get one. As a pet. No, wait, goats are hard work. I might get a pet lobster, instead. Called Shelly.
Not that I’ve ever thought about it. Ahem…
Ancient Roman poet, Publius Vergilius Maro (70-19), once said: “Every calamity is to be overcome by endurance”.
Peace Out :|:
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