Here’s the story of headbutting, humanity and a lucky hobo.
It’s always a tad of a worry when your arm doesn’t respond to the chemical signals your brain is firing at it. It’s early in the morning, so your eyes are unable to open, welded shut by the usual eye goo. It leaves your tired and half-functioning brain with a myriad of groovy explanations. Have I lost an arm? Was there a terrible storm that somehow didn’t manage to wake me up? Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve slept on my arm for the fiftieth time this year this year and for the fiftieth time this year, my brain hasn’t woke me up. Resulting in mornings like Friday. You literally have no clue as to how close I came to headbutting my alarm clock. It started like any other day, dear readers…
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! That’s my alarm clock. I don’t own a time-keeping budgie. But man, that would be cool. Anywho, there I lay. Flat on my chest, my right arm trapped under my torso. I’d normally reach over to shut up the clock, also on my right, and then spend ten minutes crawling out of bed. I couldn’t. My arm was trapped, dead, numb and extremely heavy. No worries, I’ll use my other arm to flip myself over. Nope. Crap idea. Why? Because that arm was also trapped.
I sort of had to wiggle my shoulders like a busty showgirl to try to free myself. I was already saying my goodbyes. Of course, my face was planted in the pillow, so my goodbyes were more muffles of gibberish. They eventually turned into muffles of melodramatic tears. Trust me to die accidentally suffocating on a pillow.
So there I was. Shoulder wiggling and crying into a pillow. I ended up managing to scoot myself over to the edge of the bed using my surprisingly strong neck muscles, a skill I didn’t know I had and will probably never use again. My bedside unit is small and shorter than my bed, so when I reached the edge of the bed, my head fell off said bed and landed on the hard wooden unit.
I started to regain feelings in my arms and I managed to crawl, slowly, toward the clock. I contemplated headbutting it, an option I was initially delighted with because it was another chance to use my extremely strong neck muscles, but an option I became disenchanted with because my head was sore. I eventually put out the noise with my lovely nose before falling to the floor.
Honestly readers, this happens to me more often than you think.
With arms as droopy as a Republican’s excuse, I made my way into the bathroom. I was tired and my arms were bright purple, and still very heavy, but I had an appointment. I couldn’t be late. I perhaps should’ve waited a tad longer for everything to wake up. I was mislead, readers. I got every last drop in the bowl. Without using my useless hands, either. Yet another wiggle, hip related, to help to achieve this goal. Hurrah! I’m fine. But no, I wasn’t. After around ten minutes of doing various morning routines, I was wiping my face clear of my shaving foam. I looked down the red towel I was using, and I was overcome with one particular thought. ‘Hang on, I don’t own any red towels. ARRGH! OH, SWEET MOTHER OF TURNIPS! OH LORDY-LOO! THIS DAY IS SO UNBELIEVABLY CRUDDY ALREADY! THERE IS LITERALLY NOTHING GOOD ABOUT ANYTHING! AND – oh, hang on, I used my hands to clean my bloody face. YEA! I’M BACK BABY!’
Again, this happens to me more often than you think.
I’d had no sleep. We’ve had terrible storms lately. Winds of up to 50-miles-per-hour. That is quite literally erm – some kilometres. Probably. 100. Thereabouts. I don’t know, I’m not a Frenchman refusing to use the correct system. Anyway, I was up all night as our timber rafters creaked under the immense pressure upon them. I’m the type who never gets up in the middle of the night. Very few things can keep me up for a night. But no matter what they are, I shalt never arise. But on that Friday morning, I had a cheque on my desk. I was petrified the roof was gonna blow off and I’d lose it. But I simply would not get up to resolve the issue.
This is the type of conundrum that keeps me up. For other people, it’s stress and debts. For me, it’s a roof in the wind and a cheque in the back pocket of a lucky hobo.
I have a schedule. I get up at a certain time. I give myself a certain amount of time to do various things on my routine. Same routine every time. Same order of logic. Same positions. Same actions. Same everything. I was feeling sick on Friday. I nearly threw up me Weetabix, but if you’ve ever seen British Weetabix, that’s hardly a surprise. But did I slow down? Did I abandon my precise schedule? Like fiddlesticks I did. I carried on regardless. The British spirit. Despite the fact I’m Italian. But that’s beside the point. Well no, actually, that is the point entirely. Meh. We’ll move on, shall we?
Despite my rigorous timekeeping, I was running late. My watch was running slow. Some things, readers, you cannot foresee. Like that other time I was running late and ended up missing my bus because it was autumn and one of the many leaves that regularly frequent our road at this time of year had blown into my eye and it really hurt. I had to return home and raid the medicine cabinet. Sadly, science hasn’t yet invented a cure for ‘leaf-in-eye-pain’. But my watch. It was running slow, dagnabbit. ‘Oh well’, you must be thinking, ‘a few minutes couldn’t have hurt’. It was 68 minutes slow! I never change it when the clocks change, so I knew it was an hour out, but it’s also a few minutes fast, so it’s both slow and fast, which has always confused me. ‘Well Ally, why don’t you change it?’ Honestly readers, if I knew how, I would.
The bus to the appointment place was jampacked with the usual sort. Students. The elderly. Crazy people. Children eating the seats. A driver who gave me too much change. I gave it him back. It was an uneventful journey, but I mention it because after the crap day I’d had up until that point, there was a brief moment of happiness. A young girl, typical student, sat in the elderly seats at the front of the bus. An elderly person got on. The bus was full. So what did the girl do? She got up and stood. Lovely. I can’t remember the last time I saw that. There I was ruefully rubbing my forehead, convinced I had brain damage, which is why I thought I was feeling sick, and there was the best of humanity. It made me smile.
Of course, I know what you’re thinking. ‘You think you have brain damage?’ Well, think what you want, but that has not yet been conclusively proven.
My appointment with government bureaucrats wasn’t up to much, either, although I did venture out nearby afterwards to get some photos. I’ve been doing that every two weeks since January, photographing a new building as it is being built, keeping a photo diary of its construction. But as I’ve mentioned, it’s been stormy. By the time I finished photographing, my hood had blown away and my very long hair was severely frazzled. I was also wet and very cold. My little toes had started to accumulate hypothermia. I haven’t even mentioned the several times I was nearly run over. Although one of them was my fault.
By the way, the reason I was wet was because it was raining. Not because somebody had thrown a bucket of water on me. Yet again.
I arrived home not long after that ‘incident’. My coat was all ruffled and opened where the strong winds had pulled open the buttons. I was a tad dusty from the construction site. I was dripping wet. My long hair had stuck to my body. My glasses were covered in marks. My head was sore. My feet were sore. My arms were still sore. And I was still tired. I needed a lie down. And that’s exactly what I did.
Head first, I collapsed onto my bed, not waking up for a good few hours. You know, they often say sleep is a great healer. So, did it work for little old me?
Like hell it did.
I fell asleep on my bloody arms again…
American author and novelist, Jacqueline Carey (b. 1946), once said: “There are patterns which emerge in one’s life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation on a theme”.
Peace Out :|:
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