I've been building up a head of steam this week, driven stir crazy by the old four walls and the heavy-ish snowfall and the lassitude that comes from a recent heavy cold and cough and sore fecking throat and mucus like Spiderman's right wrist after a bout of self-love. Should you require a soundtrack to my week, stick Salva Mea by Faithless on, then just as it's bubbling up to a crescendo, change it for something by the Smiths.
I've been to the quack, but there's no chest infection, so he basically accused me of wasting his time (in a nice way), then checked his (my) notes and saw he hadn't done a pointless 'finger up the arse' test for my Crohn's, so before I could make me excuses, I was bent over his leatherette treatment couch with jeans and boxers round me ankles and a doctor stood adding an inch of KY to a rubber gloved finger. Made me forget about the old cough though.
So on and on it bloody snowed, and I trailed it through everywhere I went, wet footprints like the Yeti's marking out my depressed rambles via bookie, newsagent and boozer, with a brief detour via chip shop and bakers. Tel's put old curtains from home on the floor of the shop, to 'mop up the wet, like'. It isn't working. They just look like someone's old curtains on the floor of a shop. People actually AVOID them, just in case they're waiting to be put up somewhere. Last thing you'd want is ruddy great wet footprints on 'em, innit? The fact Tel singularly fails to see this is the reason why he's mopping his floor every hour with a sort of depressed air.
His father-in-law's house is awaiting a final lick of paint and a few electrical bits wiring before it can be classed as 'updated' and shoved back on the market, subject to a new valuation. Previous buyers have run for the hills, so Tel's hopeful this might have done the trick. He's now bored, waiting for the snow to clear so he can get back down there to do the final polishing bits. I've now not smoked for 8 days; Tel said "Blimey, wondered where me profits had gone" grumpily. Never going back again. Even he is begrudgingly impressed with my willpower. He's even stopped asking now.
Mrs Tel was in the shop on Wednesday, so we had a chat. She's hoping to be in Spain soon, as she and Tel have booked a week at the end of March. "We're closing the shop" she said, quietly. "Lee could've taken it but Terry said no". She smiled. "'ave to get shot of the perishable stock before we shut, that'll be a 'mare". She's looking forward to the day when it shuts permanently. I think that's a long way off listening to her speak. They'll still be here in May at least. Good stuff. I was vaguely cheered.
So a bit of snow and everything goes tits up. Suffolk hasn't even had it as bad as us in North East Essex, where it edges the road in alarming boulder-like protuberances, bringing to mind the end of 'The Shining' when Jack Nicholson pursues his son through the snowy maze armed with an axe. I've fed the birds more in five days than they normally eat in a year, and still the winged bastards come, fighting like cocky teenaged lads at chucking out time, hopping between feeders and bird table, scoffing all that box of musty cornflakes I found at the back of my pantry cupboard.
No footy tomorrow, which is probably just as well, as I need to do a bit of cleaning and washing and stuff and Sunday's earmarked for a pub roast with the lads. God do I fancy a ciggie? I can feel all the weight I lost being ill slowly clambering back up to restake its position. The fags kept it at bay a bit. Still, I can actually breathe and taste stuff again. Never going back. |  |
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