The Chirpy Little Imp’s Pound of Carrots and Puddle Delight

Post CXLVI

Here’s the story of age, worldly hazards, and an attic hatch door.

The last thing one expects after giving someone a gift is for them to return the favour by hitting you in the head with an attic hatch door. You see, my home is a funny thing. The landing at the top of the stairs is quite small, so the hatch had to be sandwiched in when it was built six years ago. But when you open it, the door hangs down over my door. So, if you didn’t know it was open and you left my room, you’d walk straight into it because my door, as they do, opens inwards. I gave mother a £20 gift voucher and the very next day, she goes into the attic, then leaves the attic, but forgets the hatch is still open. Cue a very pissed off Alan going head first into the corner of a very heavy lump of plastic. She nearly bloody blinded me. She bought a nice cardigan with that voucher. And I now have a huge bump on me noggin’. What can you do but smile and carry on? I do wonder if she’s trying to kill me.

I felt very sick afterwards. Some blood. Felt dizzy and disorientated. I was in a hurry, readers. Dinner was ready. A hungry Italian will run through a solid brick wall to get to pasta draped in ten layers of cheese. Some would call it fate’s penance for gluttony, but that’s strange to me as it seems it doesn’t have a problem with my midnight ice cream binges. Maybe it has a problem with Italian stereotypes. Or maybe it’s just realised it doesn’t exit and is now stuck in a vicious circle of existentialist doubt. I may have confused myself there. I’m always doing that. But at least I remember to CLOSE BLOODY ATTIC HATCHES! Good gravy, I wouldn’t leave her in charge of a nuclear arsenal.

Maybe I’m being a tad mean. She’s 64. People get forgetful; it’s a sign of age. That they are entering the twilight years. That things aren’t as simple as they once were. Maybe, but my mother is a rather clever girl. I think she knew exactly what she was doing. Just got distracted is all. She is clever. I mean, she’s going to Amsterdam in a few weeks time and has been quoted as saying she ‘cannot wait to try all the dope’. A child of the ‘60s. A woman after my own heart. I love her dearly. Except when she nearly knocked me unconscious. Love wasn’t the main thing on my mind. Nothing was going on inside my head after that happened. Just plenty of little birds flying around the outside of it in a constant circle.

Maybe I’m the problem. I’m getting old. Not as wise as I once was. It hit me this week that my birthday is looming. It wasn’t the only thing that hit me this week, either. 24. It’s ridiculous to feel old at that age, but you know what, there’s a reason for it. I could’ve got the bus on Friday if I’d run, but it occurred to me that I was tired. My dicky knee was being a dick. I had a bad back. I was grumpy. Flustered. I was having something of a hot flush, which either means spring was in the air or I’m entering menopause. Of course, those of you who watch the news are fully aware the UK this week has been hit by a massive thick covering of dusty grey smog, making it impossible to see London. Not that that’s a bad thing. It’s been brutal. So it’s also likely the hot flush could be a reaction to some foreign toxin in the air. I’ll be speaking in tongues, next. You know, before the toxin causes my tongue to fall off.

I wasn’t always like that. No matter what came my way, I could face it with a smile. A bum knee? Ha, no problem, world! Feeling down? Ha, no problem, world! Just couldn’t see the point in running to catch a bus like some uncivilised hoodlum? Ha, no problem, world! Friday came and went. Too old to run for that bus, I thought. Too old for ice cream, I thought. Too old to splash in puddles when nobody is looking, I thought. No, wait, I still do that last one. Oh, come on, readers, who doesn’t?

I don’t have a problem with it, it’s just an observation. The world is becoming a much more sensible place for dear old muggins, here.

I started work placement this week, it’s what they used to call work experience. Just for four and a bit weeks. A radio station. I know, I know, they let me into a radio station. Web content and designs for various things, are my main duties. It’s rather fun. Everyone is really nice and I’m finding it a bit easier to talk to people. Getting out for once is proving to be a good thing. And I’m sure when it gets into full swing and when I’m not half-unconscious, I’ll be able to regale you of interesting tales. For now, it’s just a brief update. I’m always moaning about the awful things that keep happening to me, like attic hatch door hazards, but this is a good thing, and I wanted to share that with you. Won’t last. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m a chirpy little imp.

I think as long as you have something in your life to make you happy it doesn’t matter how old you are, how banged up your knee is, or how much mother tries to kill you. For me, something that always brings joy is my parents. The things they say and do, even the bad things have a good side if you look hard enough. I’ve known them for nearly 24 years and I’m always discovering new things to bring joy to miserable old me.

Dad was 16, once. Just started dating mother, and they’re still together 48 years later. Dad lived near an old police station. He often finished work at the plant late into the morning and always walked home with a bag across his shoulder, always the same route by the police station. One morning, he was stopped by the police. 2:30 am. “Now, now, what’s in the bag, young man?” they asked impatiently. “Oh”, said dad, “a pound of carrots and a machine gun.”

The pound of carrots was accurate, although I still don’t know why he was carrying around a bunch of carrots that weighed one pound. The machine gun was a toy for a raffle. There are so many questions I have regarding that, but it’s not important, because he forgot to mention it was a toy to the police. Needless to say, that night didn’t end well.

In much the same way my day didn’t end well that time I walked into an attic hatch door. That tale will on forever.

Oh, wonderful.

American artist and author, William Boyd Watterson II (b. 1958), once said: “Did you ever wonder if the person in the puddle is real, and you’re just a reflection of him?”

Peace Out :|:


I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.


Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around The Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post


Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s