Here’s the story of sickness, revenge, and snakes.
My dad has stapled all the pages together of the television guide. This might sound strange. But only to those of you who’ve never lived in this house. I was rather mad, yes. I mean, I now had absolutely no way to know what was on the television that night. Sure, I could’ve Googled it, but there are so, so many programmes on the telly these days, that I like to read the reviews in the guide. Pick and choose. There aren’t enough hours in the day to watch everything, really. Then it hit me. Dad also likes to read the guide. So I decided to hide the guide in a place where he’ll never, ever find it. Mwa, ha, ha, ha…
Now he’s the one who’s mad, and there’s no way he’ll ever find it. He ruined my night of television, he did. He’s 65! He should know better, right? Well, okay, mum’s argument is that I started this quarrel, and she may have a point. You see, our sofa is against a wall and the rack where the guide goes is on the left hand side. I like to sit on the right hand side. It’s my spot. I don’t like people sitting in my spot. Anyway, when I get up in the morning, I like to read the guide. Obviously, sitting on the right, it’s considerably easier to fold the guide up and put it on the floor, on the right hand side. This has infuriated my dad, you see. Everything needs to go in its place. “Put it in the rack!” he kept shouting at me. So I did. And then I moved the rack to the right hand side. Hence the stapling…
You see, I argue what he did was sick and what I did was funny. It’s like going to a sword fight with a sponge cake as your only weapon. Bit harsh. I dread to think what’s going to happen next. I was tempted to unpick the staples from next week’s guide, cut out all the names of the days at the top of the guide, then put it all back together in a jumbled up order, so he’d be sat there, wondering why his favourite programme wasn’t on. Some would say that’s too mean. But I remember that time he hid my shower soap and I had to wash my bits and pieces with shampoo. My legs are so hairy I think I gave them an afro.
I had yet more problems with him this week regarding the ongoing saga of my room colour. He wants to paint it. I say it was painted two years ago and it doesn’t need it. It’s been stressing me out. I’m out at my work experience all day. Up at seven, back at six, and he wants me to paint my room, all by myself? As I said to him, where will I sleep? We don’t have a spare room. How will I get my furniture out? It will need to be taken apart. And then, when the room’s empty, everyone will see what I’ve been hiding. The fact that my room is literally falling apart. The carpet is a mess and is the original. Been down for over 10 years, now. The plaster is coming off the walls in places, walls that also have a few nail holes in them. The skirting board has turned yellow. The coving and the ceiling need a lick of paint. My fitted wardrobe has come away from the wall. My blinds have a black burn mark where the string has been rubbing on it. Not to mention the fact that they’re barely hanging on to the wall. My pelmet needs replacing, too. My notice board is holding the wall up. Oh, and my ceiling fan has come loose. I’m worried I’m going to be blended in my sleep.
And I have to sort all this out, by myself, on top of a full time job, with no other room to sleep in, with the windows open to let the smell out of fresh paint, in the middle of frickin’ winter! I had to break out my gloves this week for the first time in months. I may as well go camping in the back garden; it’ll be a damn sight warmer. “But I want your room to look nice.” Why! Nobody ever comes in here but me! I couldn’t care less if my fan decapitates me. If my notice board above my bed falls off, taking half the wall off and crushing me in my sleep. If my wardrobe decides to fall over – don’t care! Stressing me out, dad was, with his constant bickering. “You ARE going to sort this room out!” Nope! I had another migraine the next day. I guarantee it was caused by all the bickering. Who’s ever going to come in my room but me? No women, that’s for sure, and even then, I don’t think they’ll be put off by the decor. Women aren’t that shallow, dad!
It’s not the only sickness I’ve had to deal with this week, either. You know the old chestnut, readers. Or should that be, clean-freak readers. You go to work every day. You’re obsessed about sick people. You hate being around them. And there, in your office, right next to you, is a sick colleague. Spending eight hours coughing all over his screen. Sneezing all over the place. It should be illegal. I’m not even joking. It should be illegal for sick people to go to work. You’re putting me in danger. Honestly, if you have ever been sick and you go to work, you are a monster. Put it this way, it’s no different than turning up to work with a bag full of the world’s most poisonous snakes. Sure, they’re contained, but so were the ones on that plane and that didn’t end well…
I’m now constantly worried I’m going to wake up and be full of the joys of winter. Every sneeze I wait with anxious breath that I’m not going to hear the dreaded ‘flu wheeze’ that often comes with a cold. Things like that are occupying my mind at the moment. You know what the flu wheeze is, right? When you’re not well and you sneeze, obviously, your nose is blocked. But, also obviously, trapped air needs to escape. Suddenly, you hear this wheezing noise. You can even feel the snot resettling. That’s what I’m worried about at this moment. Well, that and my wardrobe falling over, crashing through the floor and dad shouting at me. Again.
Could be worse, I suppose. I’ve almost been hit by a car twice this week. Well, he shouldn’t have been speeding. And I shouldn’t have been on the road. But mainly the first excuse…
Thankfully, I’ve been alone a few times this week. The sick colleague took two days off, but, in my humble opinion, should’ve taken the rest of the month, not that I’m hung up about it. One of my other colleagues also took a day off due to sickness, but came back the next day, when, whilst I was having my dinner, his teeth started bleeding, somehow, which, yes, I also wasn’t overly pleased with. And he was out again for almost an entire day with the boss. So I’ve been left alone in the office for quite a long time throughout the week. I quite enjoyed it, actually. Nice to feel like a grown up once in a blue moon. Of course, I was massively out of my depth, to the point where I had drowned to death. Phone calls, deliveries, clients, more phone calls. Took a lot of messages. I thought I did a good job. Until I realised I couldn’t read my own handwriting. Then, not so good.
I think I nearly had a breakdown in the ladies loo. That’s not as creepy as it sounds. It’s a room with a toilet, not a room with lots of toilets. Also, there aren’t any ladies on our floor. It’s a lot nicer than the men’s loo. No one ever uses that one. I’m not surprised, really. It stinks of weed. No idea why…
Still, after a hectic week, I’m looking forward to a nice, quiet and relaxing weekend, safe in the knowledge that dad will spend hours looking for that television guide.
That’s my message of the week, kids.
Revenge is beautiful…
English poet, literary critic, translator and playwright, John Dryden (1631-1700), once said: “Beware the fury of a patient man.”
Peace Out :|:
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