I’ve retreated to the bedroom. I’ve been ill all day and even though I’ve scarcely been out of bed for two hours, here I am again, hiding from the family. The Relatives are down for the Youngest’s birthday and the house is to girly and loud for my tender constitution tonight.
I feel rough. I woke up with a massive temperature. The Girlf assured me she could actually feel the heat emanating from me from all the way across the bed. The night had been fitful and restless, I must have been up half a dozen times and even though I was fucked this morning I still got up when she got up.
Now I’m regretting this, I should have blocked out the world and gone straight back to sleep but no that would have been to easy. Instead I got online and settled down to a day of pampering which although promised wasn’t forthcoming. Neither was my Night Nurse. Birthday parties have taken precedence over my comfort and the Girlf placed more importance on buying the essentials for her three tiered chocolate cake than buying me the medicine I needed.
Thus goes my first bank holiday off for over a decade. My last one was in May ’97. I don’t often pull sickies, in-fact if my memory serves me correctly I’ve managed to incorporate my last two bouts of flu into my days off. I’m considerate like that.
There was no getting past this though today, I am one big ache, although in fairness to me I was diligent enough to pump out a forty hour weekend before I was struck down. I think I’ve earned a day in bed.
The Girlf is delirious to have me for three days this week. She’s on leave at the moment so she’s got me all day tomorrow and Thursday. She’s very, very, very happy. Her love for me is so intense that most nights, whilst I’m working, she bombards me with love texts. Pledging herself to me and describing the agony she feels from the separation. It is very sweet.
She’s also very turned on by my pathetic weakness. I can’t fight off her advances, I don’t have the energy and she’s taking delight in being able to force her self on me. Normally I’m a whirling tornado of testosterone, a sexual tyrannosaur and much as she enjoys my dominant, relentless, don’t-take-no-for-an-answer nature I think she’s relishing the role reversal. The machine is having an off day and she’s filling the vacuum with gusto.
I must get plenty of sleep tonight, more relatives are scheduled to descend tomorrow and I’m told I’m cooking. Also tomorrow is the day of the BIRTHDAY PARTY. All in all there will be thirty people under our roof and the biggest single demographic will be TEN YEAR OLD GIRLS. Already on the ‘threat’ list she has a Tweeny disco organised either proceeded or followed by a make-over session run by the Eldest and her mate.
I can see the carnage now, at some point I will be pebble dashed with either nail polish or glitter or both. Thankfully the threat to paint the gym pink for the aforementioned disco hasn’t been carried out. The Girlf wasn’t winding me up over it, in the end she was hindered by her extreme laziness and poor time management. I knew she wouldn’t do it but it was one of those keep your mouth shut and watch it play out situations. I love being right.
I suppose I’ve been ignorant enough and best get downstairs and be sociable. This is a rare visit and I am being naughty. I debating a whisky, purely for medicinal reasons you understand. The Night Nurse never materialised so I’m sure I can justify it.
Monday, 30 August 2010
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
New world order
The new dustbins have arrived. Boring suburbia has finally succumbed to the new waste management regime. The party is well and truly over. Where there were piles of black bags there are now wheelie bins and food waste tubs. The world of chaotic abandon that we knew and loved has died and has been replaced with cold order. Our masters have spoken and now we have to separate all our rubbish and limit what we discard.
I can no longer waste food. The finite dimensions of the brown bin are my weekly allocation and that’s it. Guests will leave my dinner parties hungry because I have to serve up conservative portions out of fear of ramming the bin. I am giving serious consideration to buying a pig.
When I was kid I was an anti-establishment eco warrior but now the hippy pricks I went to college with ARE the establishment and I take a perverse delight in throwing tin cans into land fill and feel the need to burn tyres in the back garden.
The wheelie bin is tiny. At a push, with discipline we could probably cram a week’s rubbish into it but they’re not going to collect it every week. They’re going to collect it ever two weeks. We are fucked. We are well and truly fucked.
Ever so slowly Big Brother has crept up behind us in the shower and bent us over. He’s distracted us with pictures of polar bears and glaciers, he’s fed our guilt. We were so busy cooing over Knut he managed to sneak all those green bins onto us and now I’m not allowed to produce any by-products!
This is the thin end of the wedge my friends. It will be your water next. You’ll be rationed to limit the hydrocarbons needed to clean it. We’ll live in a world where we’re only allowed three hours of electricity a day and you can forget gas.
How dare we progress as a species! How dare we get used to the lives of relative comfort that our forbears died for. How dare we have children and use plastic bags to carry our food back from the hunt. Bad, bad mankind.
What we have here, my brethren, is another system of control. The planet will die if you don’t conform, you should be shamefaced, look at the floor. What you have to understand is that everything is your fault. Landfill, that will be your fault for spending your whole life eating a couple of times a day you selfish bastard. Shit summer? What do you expect with all your ‘going places’ in machines they let you buy or ride in?
They built you a road and you only went and used it didn’t you? God, you’re pathetic.
Well you can forget all that now. A couple hundred litres of rubbish a month is all you’re allowed. Get used to it, adapt to the new order or you will be punished. Make no mistake, you are being watched, your consumption is being monitored. Task forces are being employed and statutes implemented to keep you in line. You thought you were a good person but you’re not, you’re wasteful and ignorant and selfish and stupid and you have to learn the error of your ways or the polar bear dies and you won’t like that will you because they’re cute.
The rats will be ok though. They love it. As do the foxes. Obviously they’ll probably attack your children more now because they can’t get into your wheelie bin to feed and your offspring will look mighty tasty and tender but the cute mammals are fucked.
The fly’s and the weevils and all the those creepy crawlies that actually make up the majority of the biomass of the planet aren’t doing to badly either but you wait and see, it’s those niche species, those evolutionary dead ends that will pay for your behaviour.
We have arrived too late. We’ve come through the door full of optimism and there’s nothing left in the drinks cabinet but half a bottle of Midori that no one wants. Everyone that was going to put out has already put out and the lounge smells of vomit. We’re just in time to help clear up and go on the rubbish run. We’re the designated driver having to scour the streets for public bins to dump the tinnies in.
I can no longer waste food. The finite dimensions of the brown bin are my weekly allocation and that’s it. Guests will leave my dinner parties hungry because I have to serve up conservative portions out of fear of ramming the bin. I am giving serious consideration to buying a pig.
When I was kid I was an anti-establishment eco warrior but now the hippy pricks I went to college with ARE the establishment and I take a perverse delight in throwing tin cans into land fill and feel the need to burn tyres in the back garden.
The wheelie bin is tiny. At a push, with discipline we could probably cram a week’s rubbish into it but they’re not going to collect it every week. They’re going to collect it ever two weeks. We are fucked. We are well and truly fucked.
Ever so slowly Big Brother has crept up behind us in the shower and bent us over. He’s distracted us with pictures of polar bears and glaciers, he’s fed our guilt. We were so busy cooing over Knut he managed to sneak all those green bins onto us and now I’m not allowed to produce any by-products!
This is the thin end of the wedge my friends. It will be your water next. You’ll be rationed to limit the hydrocarbons needed to clean it. We’ll live in a world where we’re only allowed three hours of electricity a day and you can forget gas.
How dare we progress as a species! How dare we get used to the lives of relative comfort that our forbears died for. How dare we have children and use plastic bags to carry our food back from the hunt. Bad, bad mankind.
What we have here, my brethren, is another system of control. The planet will die if you don’t conform, you should be shamefaced, look at the floor. What you have to understand is that everything is your fault. Landfill, that will be your fault for spending your whole life eating a couple of times a day you selfish bastard. Shit summer? What do you expect with all your ‘going places’ in machines they let you buy or ride in?
They built you a road and you only went and used it didn’t you? God, you’re pathetic.
Well you can forget all that now. A couple hundred litres of rubbish a month is all you’re allowed. Get used to it, adapt to the new order or you will be punished. Make no mistake, you are being watched, your consumption is being monitored. Task forces are being employed and statutes implemented to keep you in line. You thought you were a good person but you’re not, you’re wasteful and ignorant and selfish and stupid and you have to learn the error of your ways or the polar bear dies and you won’t like that will you because they’re cute.
The rats will be ok though. They love it. As do the foxes. Obviously they’ll probably attack your children more now because they can’t get into your wheelie bin to feed and your offspring will look mighty tasty and tender but the cute mammals are fucked.
The fly’s and the weevils and all the those creepy crawlies that actually make up the majority of the biomass of the planet aren’t doing to badly either but you wait and see, it’s those niche species, those evolutionary dead ends that will pay for your behaviour.
We have arrived too late. We’ve come through the door full of optimism and there’s nothing left in the drinks cabinet but half a bottle of Midori that no one wants. Everyone that was going to put out has already put out and the lounge smells of vomit. We’re just in time to help clear up and go on the rubbish run. We’re the designated driver having to scour the streets for public bins to dump the tinnies in.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)