ON A HAT-TRICK
Two full days in bed dedicated to nursing the flu, and I fully intended to make it three today unless I became entirely convinced that there was reason enough to defy the gods of providence. Although the damage could have been worse, I should have heeded the obvious from the off anyway however, as it was clear the moment I’d prised open the sticky lids covering congealed pus for eyes and had stabbed the left one of them with the arm of my glasses that the day was against me from the very start. And trying to fight this, even with purpose, is quite simply the actions of a fool – a lesson learnt long ago that no good comes from it – things are quite simply best left well alone!
But, as I was lying here first thing searching for ways to pass the time and suppress the inevitable guilt that comes with untimely illness, (reading a modern classic as apposed to bashing the old baboon is recommended here), a rather pleasant column of warm light had already pushed its way past the small slit at the lying edge of the roller blind to crawl the short distance it takes to reach the head of the bed to administer much needed U V Rays to long suffering S A D Eyes – this was surely a clear sign for optimism and I gradually began to feel that the options need not be so limiting – a call for action even considering the incessant weeks of darkness we’re having to get used to here!
With renewed hope then, I gently gripped both arms of my specs, placing with care the hooks of them where they belonged, this time behind the ears and took a minute or two to soak up a little more of the unexpected sunshine before taking a tentative look past the sliding door of the bedroom to the living room beyond. In doing so I was almost defeated before I’d begun… The room bore nothing of my usual anally retentive tidiness but instead resembled more what’s usually referred to as the aforementioned with the word ‘hole’ attached, and by the time I’d shuffled across the threshold, it smelt like it too! It’s amazing what even two days of inert neglect can do to the inanimate world, so it didn’t come as too much of a surprise, after I’d picked my way through the discarded debris from two nights ago and the accruements to go with survival on packet soup and processed cheese slices, to find a barely animate, yet clearly alive Robinson Crusoe (or does the beard continue to grow after death) staring back at me from the bathroom mirror! And, if the smell in the living room was bad, then the stench in there was, and remains horrific! Receptacles had been missed, stuff was missing, and stuff and matter replaced it, on the floor, wall tiles, even the ceiling seemed to be dripping stuff that can only be described as, well, stuff! Ignoring this, and I’ve closed the door to ignore it all for just a bit longer, I went about the manly rituals of shit, shave, shower - in that order - whistling all the while to the tune of a promised bright new dawn regardless. Well, I got as far as the shaving bit that is, if you can call it that, for the disposable razor in the grip of a flu infested man is a cut-throat in the dancing hands of St. Vitas himself, and by the time I’d finished the job of scraping my face, most of the covering layer of skin was, I’m sure, lying in the pink soapy waters of the wash basin…
Hoodwinked by a sympathetic bit of winter sunshine maybe then, but not quite the dope I sometimes think I am. The mighty flu bug rules ok, so I didn’t risk doing to the canvases what I’d just done to my face, and here I now sit, back in my stinking pit, patches of bog roll glued to my face by ever quickening blood clots, lap-top on lap, pulling on strings that have already snapped!
A mixed week really then, what with the madness of Jaws from the pub, accompanied by a few solid days of work, followed now by the delirium of two (soon to be three) days here in bed. A rest, even at the hands of the flu has its benefits I suppose though, and as a result of this bloody bug, perhaps so too has having to put off the meeting this week with ‘the exhibitions officer’ at the Filharmonia, which Daniel, who’s taken it on himself (the man’s a star) to act as a kind of intermediary agent for me, has re-arranged for the same time next week - From what he’s relayed to me as a result of subsequent talks he’s had with her so far, the exhibition is set to happen now sometime in January and not, as I feared, sometime ‘tomorrow’! Although the whole thing still has an air of urgency about it, this news has eased the pressure a bit, and from my sick bed I’ve decided there’s now time, when less shaky and the gods are back on my side of course, to push ahead with two larger canvases I’d planned on delaying but which the show really needs to make it go with a swing.
But, as I was lying here first thing searching for ways to pass the time and suppress the inevitable guilt that comes with untimely illness, (reading a modern classic as apposed to bashing the old baboon is recommended here), a rather pleasant column of warm light had already pushed its way past the small slit at the lying edge of the roller blind to crawl the short distance it takes to reach the head of the bed to administer much needed U V Rays to long suffering S A D Eyes – this was surely a clear sign for optimism and I gradually began to feel that the options need not be so limiting – a call for action even considering the incessant weeks of darkness we’re having to get used to here!
With renewed hope then, I gently gripped both arms of my specs, placing with care the hooks of them where they belonged, this time behind the ears and took a minute or two to soak up a little more of the unexpected sunshine before taking a tentative look past the sliding door of the bedroom to the living room beyond. In doing so I was almost defeated before I’d begun… The room bore nothing of my usual anally retentive tidiness but instead resembled more what’s usually referred to as the aforementioned with the word ‘hole’ attached, and by the time I’d shuffled across the threshold, it smelt like it too! It’s amazing what even two days of inert neglect can do to the inanimate world, so it didn’t come as too much of a surprise, after I’d picked my way through the discarded debris from two nights ago and the accruements to go with survival on packet soup and processed cheese slices, to find a barely animate, yet clearly alive Robinson Crusoe (or does the beard continue to grow after death) staring back at me from the bathroom mirror! And, if the smell in the living room was bad, then the stench in there was, and remains horrific! Receptacles had been missed, stuff was missing, and stuff and matter replaced it, on the floor, wall tiles, even the ceiling seemed to be dripping stuff that can only be described as, well, stuff! Ignoring this, and I’ve closed the door to ignore it all for just a bit longer, I went about the manly rituals of shit, shave, shower - in that order - whistling all the while to the tune of a promised bright new dawn regardless. Well, I got as far as the shaving bit that is, if you can call it that, for the disposable razor in the grip of a flu infested man is a cut-throat in the dancing hands of St. Vitas himself, and by the time I’d finished the job of scraping my face, most of the covering layer of skin was, I’m sure, lying in the pink soapy waters of the wash basin…
Hoodwinked by a sympathetic bit of winter sunshine maybe then, but not quite the dope I sometimes think I am. The mighty flu bug rules ok, so I didn’t risk doing to the canvases what I’d just done to my face, and here I now sit, back in my stinking pit, patches of bog roll glued to my face by ever quickening blood clots, lap-top on lap, pulling on strings that have already snapped!
A mixed week really then, what with the madness of Jaws from the pub, accompanied by a few solid days of work, followed now by the delirium of two (soon to be three) days here in bed. A rest, even at the hands of the flu has its benefits I suppose though, and as a result of this bloody bug, perhaps so too has having to put off the meeting this week with ‘the exhibitions officer’ at the Filharmonia, which Daniel, who’s taken it on himself (the man’s a star) to act as a kind of intermediary agent for me, has re-arranged for the same time next week - From what he’s relayed to me as a result of subsequent talks he’s had with her so far, the exhibition is set to happen now sometime in January and not, as I feared, sometime ‘tomorrow’! Although the whole thing still has an air of urgency about it, this news has eased the pressure a bit, and from my sick bed I’ve decided there’s now time, when less shaky and the gods are back on my side of course, to push ahead with two larger canvases I’d planned on delaying but which the show really needs to make it go with a swing.
posted by The Slide at 1:46 pm
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