Here’s the story of bacon, illness, and Chaka Khan.
Is a 12 rasher packet of bacon a terrible housewarming gift? I wasn’t sure. I dawdled over an answer. I mean, if someone has just moved into a cosy apartment, surely it makes no sense to get that person a bowl of potpourri. You can’t eat potpourri. Plus, it’s a small apartment. Bacon is a lot more useful. Also, it’s a much nicer smell for your new home than freshly baked bread.
In the end, a rare fleeting moment of sanity overcame me and I decided that bacon was a crazy housewarming gift. I decided instead that I would be the gift. My presence would be a present. It’s a very new age idea and sure, it sounds ridiculous, but the kings of new age were the hippies, and they were completely ridiculous. Admirable, but ridiculous. Like me. Sorry, I meant adorable. Ridiculously adorable. Ridicable. Oh, hang on. Scratch that.
I’m fairly thin. Pasty. Not healthy. Coughy. Not many positives. I do have amazing buns. But I wear baggy jeans so it’s hard to tell. But I know because a girl told me after a groping in an elevator. Long story. Anywho, the point is that most people wouldn’t consider me in helping with a house move. So you can imagine my surprise when I got the call from my brother to help with a move because he ‘needed some muscle’. His words. That’s like asking Hulk Hogan to take off the spandex and become a midwife. It’s an absurd notion.
Yes, I helped my brother move apartments this week. Just him, a van and me. It was like a modern Steptoe and Son. If you’re not familiar with that TV show, it was a show centred on rag and bone men, which ran for 12 years in the old days. Also known as 1962 to 1974. Which is the old days for a ‘90s kid. The show was stolen and remade by the Americans and was completely screwed up in the transition like with the other 1,000 TV shows they’ve taken from us. No wait, that’s harsh. I do like American Shameless. And to be fair, our version of The Golden Girls, The Brighton Belles, was God-awful. What were we talking about? Ah yes, a rare moment of sanity. Oh how I miss it.
The move was scheduled for Thursday. It was a quiet morn when I arose. The few remaining beautiful summer birds sung fruitfully in the air as the seagulls came in from the nearby North Sea and brutally murdered them. That’s what it sounded like. Could be furious mating. Although the word ‘furious’ is superfluous from my experiences. Like that time in the elevator. Long story. The morning sunshine woke me up, but not in a ‘countryside, ooh – how lovely ‘tis this blanket of light caressing my soul and raising me from slumber in my million pound in the middle of nowhere mansion, with my fancy designer dogs and my ridiculously over-manicured children’ way. Oh no. Not that at all. My cheek was a little ant and my bedroom window was the magnifying glass. I like waking up to the smell of bacon. Less so when that smell is my face. I wasn’t on fire but I took precautions and frantically dabbed my cheek with my woolly hat that I always wear in bed. Long story. I flopped out of bed, lay on my face for ten minutes and crawled to the bathroom.
I knew it was going to be a long day.
It was apparent fairly early on that I was going to need an ambulance. Having to walk up and down four flights of stairs, through the narrow corridors of a 140-year-old Victorian villa, carrying ridiculously heavy items, when I’m not healthy and incredibly unwell, was, in no bluntness of phrase, pure hell. Headache, breathless, sweating, shaking, blood sugar tumbling, my long hair frizzing. That was truly awful. To say the experience nearly killed me is an understatement.
No rest for the wicked, as they say. Soon enough, we were on the road and at the new apartment block. We arrived in style. Crashing into a six foot tall, two-foot wide, solid oak post. We’d arrived. Calamity runs in this family. We didn’t do too much damage. The shock did frizz my hair up even more, so that wasn’t great. In under three seconds, I went from 1975 Peter Frampton to 1975 Chaka Kahn.
It wasn’t long before I was wondering why it was so hard to fit a washing machine. Sure, wheeling it through three doors, an elevator, four floors and five more doors, was hard, but actually fitting it was ridiculous. Getting it into position took half an hour of grunting and shoving. Then we realized we only had a tiny gap to squeeze into the space behind to fit all the pipes. So I had to squeeze myself through that gap and have a fiddle around. Long story short, by the time I got out, I was considerably wetter than when I went in.
The aftermath of all this has left me crippled and a broken mess. I’m typing this through a wall of pain. So, sorry I’m not on the best of form. I am trying. Every muscle in my body is in agony. Every time I move, I’m in agony. I can’t grip. Holding onto a cup is impossible with one hand. My thighs are incredibly tight. The backs of my lower legs are rich with a stabbing pain. My feet are like lead boots. I can’t walk very far. They’re numb and hot. I can’t lie down because my chest feels tight but when I walk around, my shoulder blades hurt. Not to mention my cough which has suddenly gotten a lot worse. A constant barrage of vicious coughing is most unpleasant. I’m tired all the time. The move left me scratched and bloodied. My stomach has been upset all week. I’m covered in mysterious bruises. Literally, my body seems to be giving up. I’m going from bad to worse and the doctors won’t do anything for me. In short, I’m on my own.
It’s hard to be happy about anything, to be honest. When you have no one for company and you spend every hour of your life alone and never go outside, your mind wanders. It’s hard not to worry and hard not to have someone to tell you that it’s nothing to worry over. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.
I suppose the moral of all this is that we should all care for others. If you know of somebody, perhaps a neighbour, or somebody you see occasionally, maybe at work, or an elderly person, people who are quiet, many of them alone, many of them without anybody in their lives, ask them how they are. It’s too late for me, I’m screwed, but there are others. Just a knock on their door, talk to them, ask them how they are doing, keep them company. It’s difficult when we’re so busy these days, but there’s always time to make time. If there’s something you can get from my constant whining about my body falling to pieces, then it should be, make time to care for others. We all need somebody.
As for me, I can’t type anymore. My fingers are hurting. I literally can’t go on. But don’t worry about me. By the time you read this, I’ll probably have my face buried in a bowl of bacon.
That girl in the elevator would be so proud of what I’ve become.
American writer, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “I make believe like asexuals make love – alone, with cardboard tubes.”
Peace Out :|:
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To Contrive & Jive
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