A Colourful Subversion to the Bloody Norm

Post CCXLIII

Here’s the story of clumsiness, falling over, and a toilet.

You know, it wasn’t the fact that I had my hand in the toilet that gave away the fact a rough day lay ahead, it was the fact that my sock had fallen down the back of the radiator. You see, I had nowhere to put my clothes. I had to put them somewhere so I could fix the broken toilet. I wasn’t naked whilst I was doing this, by the way. I was wearing pyjamas. My sock became stuck about halfway down the back of the radiator, so I used my comb to try to free the stricken sock. But then my comb also became stuck. So then I thought I’d use a ruler. That, predictably, also got stuck. So then I tried to sandwich my hand up the small gap between the radiator and the wall, from the bottom. I did manage to get all my stuff out, although the cost was a cut and bloody hand. Delighted, I sat down and put the sock on. Only then did I realise that it was actually one of mother’s socks. And she has very tiny feet. Miraculously, the toilet then started working all on its own. Well, they say God moves in mysterious ways…

Don’t give me a household chore to do, is my message. I remember emptying the dishwasher once and I couldn’t get all the pots and pans in the pots and pans cupboard. Well, okay, I could, but the door wouldn’t shut. So I decided to kick the door repeatedly until it did shut. Six attempts it took. “WHY…” Kick. “WON’T…” Kick. “YOU…” Kick. “SHUT…” Kick. “YOU…” Kick. “BASTARD!” Kick. Somewhat inevitably, the next time it was opened, everything fell out, but you know, I always try to look on the bright side of life. The fact the pots and pans were all over the floor made it far easier to pick the one I needed. There’s God moving in those mysterious ways, again.

And the less said about the several times I’ve cut through the lawnmower cable the better…

I was getting ready for work when the ‘sock-gate’ incident occurred, as no-one has ever called it. I wasn’t in a good mood anyway. To say the weather outside was reminiscent of the last ice age is nothing short of a complete and utter understatement. A thick blizzard blanketed the land with wave after wave of snowfall, periodically broken up by the occasional super-sized hailstone shower. We’d actually had the first of the hailstorms the day before when we were coming back from church. Dad got more than his fair share down the back of his shirt whilst mother got more than her fair share down the front of hers. Which, I hear, isn’t pleasant. Especially when it melts. Ah, the perils of being a woman…

It was ludicrous, readers. I had to trudge through snow, over ice, being blown seven and three quarters every which way from Sunday. And to get to the bus stop I have to walk through a small and cramped rabbit warren of a trail through a small cluster of trees, which, at this time of the year, are nothing more than very pointy sticks. And then, at the end of that, there’s a bank, a path, another bank, and the main road. If you slip on that bank, you’ll go flying toward the path, which is covered in ice, over that, then onto the next bank and then… well, then it’s time to start praying…

It’s a miracle I didn’t fall over. It was even more miraculous I didn’t fall over the following day because the snow had turned the land into a boggy marsh of supreme honey like viscosity. It’s more of a miracle I didn’t sink, to be frank. The next day, it all turned to ice, and still, I didn’t fall. Ooh, but I had a couple close shaves, though. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t become stuck. Once it turned to ice, I would’ve been stuck there for a considerable amount of time…

My glasses were ruined by the snow. When water falls on them, it dries as these really thick white globules. I spend quite a large number of hours cleaning them each week, which yes, you may think would make one go insane, what with all the repetition and tedium involved in several hours of frantic scrubbing, but after one has lost one’s mind doing that, you enter this zombie-like state that is, actually, quite soothing in a funny sort of way.

At work, well, it’s work experience and I’m enjoying it, but I’m not enjoying not getting paid, but you know what the British government are like. “We’re bringing in this fantastic new scheme! Basically, if you want to get benefits, you have to do community service for up to 40 hours a week with no chance of a job at the end of it! Isn’t that brilliant! And we’ll be cheering you on in our country mansions in front of our log burning fires with our glasses of sherry!” “Uh-huh. And if I tell you that’s really not fair?” “Oh, then you can say goodbye to all your benefits until you comply.” “Hmm, isn’t that a bit ‘North Korea’?” “Well, yes, but that’s just a coincidence…”

Thankfully, I blagged my way into something quite fun. I design not very good posters and banners that everyone seems to like, for some reason, for a local radio station. It suits me well. It’s a tiny place. Very informal and very relaxed. Not many people there, which is good, because people don’t like me. All volunteers. Including one this week who was told not to come back because his internet history showed that he was looking at some very strong mother related adult material. I have literally no words…

I spend my entire day on Photoshop. It’s really not what the government wants us to do as part of this scheme, which makes me smile. It is more a community centre. And it’s in a part of the town with a lot of immigrants. There’s somebody there teaching new arrivals about our driving tests and about British history. I’m learning a lot. Even I didn’t know most of it. I failed history, by the way. My certificate for my history test says ‘ungraded’. It was so bad they didn’t even bother to grade it. Well, I’m sorry if I don’t know what caused World War One but I literally couldn’t care less. Everyone has a place in society and mine is not historian. I don’t know what mine is, yet, but it’s certainly not historian. Probably ‘local oaf’.

At the end of each day, I head off home. Obviously. Aye, I’m now one of the working drones that keep the country ticking over. Well, that’s what they tell us. I don’t think I’m doing anything quite that important. I can complain about the journey to work. I can complain that I’m tired all the time and I have fallen asleep at work several times, although one time was during a migraine, which I feel was justified. And I can complain about the journey home. Standing outside in the freezing cold waiting for that goddamn bus to show up. Shivering like a lost streaker in the middle of the North Pole. But that’s life. You get on with it , don’t you? You learn to get on with it the hard way, don’t you? Slowly being brought into line with the working majority. An endless mass of grey lumps all doing the same thing.

Except we’re not. We’re all unique. We’re all an interesting array of endlessly colourful individual characters. That’s what keeps the smile on my face. After all, how many of you have had your hand down a toilet, up a radiator, and had your arms mercilessly poked with sharp sticks this week? Hmm? Exactly. Although I certainly wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Well, maybe once in life. Well, come on, it’s character building really, isn’t it?

American comedian, Joe Ancis, once said: “The only normal people are the ones you don’t know very well.”

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 Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Post Every Sunday
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