Here’s the story of nails, ailments, and Weetabix.
I can’t be the only one who thinks it’s just a tad weird for a grown man to be clipping his nails with an actual nail clipper on a bus, right? I mean, I was already a tad frazzled after what had been a trying start to the day, readers. I put the dishwasher on, right, and I woke up in the morning and it hadn’t cleaned any of the dishes. Oh great, no bowls for my cereal. I had to resort to toast. Except I had to wait a while for some bread to defrost as there was none in the bread bin. But, finally, I got my toast on. With a nice cuppa tea and everything. In retrospect, leaving the toaster to its own devices whilst I went to get on with other things was a bad idea, because when I returned to the kitchen, it was fairly smoky. The toaster was a bit on fire, but it wasn’t that bad. What was bad was my burnt toast, but at least I had the tea. Well, some of it. The bag burst in the cup. But even that wasn’t the final straw, readers. No, that particular straw snapped on the bus, which I nearly missed. I mean, obviously. A guy got on, sat right next to me, and popped out his nail clippers. That’s… that’s not normal, right? I mean, maybe on the New York subway, but in a sleepy Yorkshire town? Oh man, I nearly threw up my charcoal breakfast…
You might think this would constitute what modern folk often refer to as ‘one of those days’. You know the kind. Your alarm might not go off. Maybe you miss the bus. A deadline slips at work. Your partner leaves you because a crazed feral goat in the house is, apparently, the final straw. Your usual stuff. This particular day of mine was probably at the bad end of ‘one of those days’. I haven’t even mentioned the foot of snow outside. Yes. It’s been snowing in the UK. It’s spring here, by the way. At least I think it’s supposed to be spring. It’s a bit hard to tell because the televised weather forecast picture is a bit choppy, what with all the snow and all that gubbins.
The cold weather isn’t agreeing with me. As if the nail clipper, burst tea bag and toaster fire weren’t bad enough, my cough is deteriorating. No, wait, the opposite. I mean, it’s getting worse. Which, yes, is the definition of deteriorating, but in this context, would mean it’s getting better, but it’s not, it’s getting worse. The opposite is improve. But my cough isn’t improving. Well, I mean, it’s improving itself, in that, it’s getting worse, which, from its perspective, it’s a good result. Its sole aim is to kill me, so it’s improving from that viewpoint, but deteriorating my health. So, in reality, I have… no idea what I’m talking about anymore. Bad cough. Cold weather. Cough worse. That’s what I meant to say. That would’ve been a lot easier, wouldn’t it? Ah. Apologies.
You see, I can’t really think for all the coughing and I can’t really see because rain dries as these huge white dots on my glasses and we’ve had a lot of rain. Sleety rain. I say, sleet. It’s like rain and heavy snow at the same time, which I was always led to believe was quite impossible. Maybe this is a first. They could name it after me. The Twat Phenomena. What? Well, they always say don’t put yourself down. I, on the other hand, was born to do that. And I’m smashingly good at it, gosh darn it.
You know that cough you have where you almost vomit every time you cough? That’s my cough right about now. Still not enough to make me go to the doctors, though. I mean, if I was bringing up blood with my endless coughing, which has been going on for around three weeks now, I would consider going to the doctors, but I’d need to cough up a lung before I’d definitely go. That might sound bad, readers, but I have three of them, so I’m fine…
I’m convinced the cold weather is also to blame for my three ulcers. Yeah, they also showed up on the nail-clipping day. That entire day was like a big bag of shit was thrown at me. Ulcers are excruciating. In the UK, we have a wonder drug named Bonjela, which yes, I know they have in Australia, but like their Weetabix, it’s not the real deal. It tastes lovely. I wish they’d make Bonjela flavoured crisps. The UK gave the world a lot of good things, but I argue Bonjela is the greatest. Okay, we did a lot of bad things, too, but what do you want me to do? Apologise? My ancestors weren’t even British. They were Italian. They were busy switching allegiances every five seconds…
Bonjela is a funny thing. It’s one of those lovely tasting things that you want other things to taste like but don’t. You know, like the bread in Church. It’s beautiful, readers. My favourite bread. But it’s just made for the Church, you can’t buy it. An old teacher of mine once said there was a Swedish bread that tastes just the same, but damn it, I forgot the brand. It’s a search I’m still invested in. Fifteen years later. Ah, well.
I don’t want to get bogged down in why Australian Weetabix isn’t the real deal, so I’ll move on.
Ooh, do you want to hear about that time this week I badly stubbed my toe and lost half the nail? You should’ve seen all the blood. Didn’t stop for a while. No? Am I depressing you too much with all my ailments? Do let me know, I have plenty more…
You see, the problem with Australian Weetabix is that it tastes like cardboard and is very thin compared to British Weetabix. Now, you might say, “Well, whatever floats their boat.” Maybe. But no. Look at Coke. They gave the world New Coke. Which was, I think we can all agree, the testicle on the body of the history of drinks. Fair enough, but if another country stole the recipe, changed it and rebranded it as New Coke, original Coke would have every right to be peeved. I don’t know what you did, Australia, to the wonderful British invention of Weetabix, but you’ve ruined it! You monsters! And don’t get me started on American Weetabix. Not only does it taste like rotting yoghurt, they took the ‘A’ out of the name! Why! It doesn’t even make sense!
Mum and dad went away this week for their 43rd wedding anniversary. Spain. I could talk a bit about Spain, but I’m not a fan of Spain, so I don’t want to offend any Spaniards. Portugal is lovely, though. It’s like a nice Spain. I do enjoy it when mother and father depart for exotic lands. They watch everything I eat. But when they’re not here? The first day they were gone, right, I had a lovely dinner. Three burgers. 10 mini-sausages. And three rashes of bacon. Oh, and some mash. Which I think is one of your five a day. Well, potatoes are, so there…
Still, though, I’m coping just fine, readers. I mean, sure, when they return, I’m going to have to tell them the dishwasher is on the blink and I may have set the toaster a bit on fire. But, you know, that’s life. Dishwashers break. Toasters falter. People clip their nails on – oh, God, I’m reliving it. They went everywhere. And what did he do when he was finished? Stood up, brushed himself down and sat back down. Oh, the horror.
Apart from all that, I’m fine. I mean, there was an almighty bang early on Friday morn, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. It sounded like the largest albatross in history colliding into the conservatory at the speed of light.
But, please, don’t ask me how I know what that sounds like…
English churchman and historian, Thomas Fuller (1608-1661), once said: “Health is not valued till sickness comes.”
Peace Out :|:
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