journal of a writing man

I cannot account for it.  There is an overlapping line of dried coffee rings along the edge of my desk, in front of the keyboard.  Doubtless it was me, watching canned TV on iPlayer, lodging my mug between sips.

It’s sordid and inexcusable, I fear, though my recent malaise may explain some of it or, at the least, the reason why it has stayed there, grown there, and is still there until I go and grab a damp sponge to wipe it away.  Or expunge it, if you want to pun the offence.

Strangely, it has started me off on a thought train where frozen peas are run in a metal sieve under the hot tap, turned out into a cup and eaten with a spoon.  Maybe a runcible spoon.  There’s no telling with these associations, and no great consequence in them.  Unless you’re a Salinger fan, that is.

Hey ho.  I shall take a short break here, stretch my legs, and fetch a damp sponge.  These coffee rings are beginning to offend me.

There.  That’s much better.  Fresher, and absolutely nothing to do with frozen peas.

The missing day was filled with the aftermath of a storm the night before and a great deal of coughing from Graham, embarrassed that he had brought it on himself but fiercely determined not to admit to it.  Me, I was no more than tired after the loss of a night’s sleep and a little grumpy with it.  Hail storms quite often leave me grumpy and out of sorts the next morning, I have no idea why.

One of the storms, particularly heavy in nature, hit the exposed southerly side of the house briefly, throwing hard hail stones at it in the most abrasive manner.  Sufficiently abrasive to strip handfuls of the pebbledash finish from the wall and scatter them on the path beneath.

“That hail seems to be lasting a long time,” Graham said the next morning.

“That’s not hail, that’s stripped harl.”

“Oh.  So it is.  No problem, I’ll pop out a minute and sweep it up.”

“You shall do no such thing.  You just so much as stick your nose out in that cold air and I shall cut it off for you.”

He regarded the damp, dismal day for a sour moment.  “No, you’re right.  I’ll be good and go back to bed to nurse this darn cough.”

“Take a heating pad with you and lodge it on your chest.  Works wonders with a tickly cough does a bit of heat on your chest.”

It did, too, even though he did swear and complain about being too hot at one point.  By the end of the afternoon he was announcing his recovery.  Again.

“Good.  I’m delighted.  I hope you’ll take heed and be more careful for a few days.”

“I’m feeling too tired to rebel.  Just you wait until I’m properly recovered, though.  I’ve not forgotten that nose cutting threat.”

“Tremble.  Tremble.  I shall call down a blackbird if you raise even a finger against me.”

“What are you on about now?”

“I dunno.  Something to do with a baked pie, no doubt.”

All’s well with us, allowing for a slight relapse on Graham’s part.  We’re all tired, though, for varying reasons, or no reason at all.

I’ll pick up the threads tomorrow but today, today I’m feeling tired.

When I woke this morning I walked in on Graham to find him all prostrate and feverish, just woken, and not in the best of moods.

“I think I’d better phone the ‘flu line or something,” he said.

“Right.  I’ll look out the numbers and such.”

So off I went for coffee and computer, located the info page and printed it out.  It’s a list of the symptoms and what you should do if you think you have swine ‘flu, along with a choice of two phone numbers.

“Here you go,” I said, and slipped the paper under his reading glasses.  He smiled, said thanks, nicely, and dozed off once more.

A little later he came down, fixed himself a bowl of corn flakes, and sat down with me to eat it.  “For the first time I think I’m feeling a little better,” he said.

I squinted at him, closely.  Sure enough, the colour is coming back into his face and he seems brighter over all.

“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me feel.  Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about calling the ‘flu people?”

“Yeah.  No point.”

“Great.  You’re probably right.  What now, then?”

“I shall go back to bed for a little while.”

“Fine.  Give me a yell when you want something.  I shall be popping out to the supermarket today now that I’m all mended.  I want to get some bland food for you and your recovery.”

“Shredded Wheat.  I need Shredded Wheat.”

“That I can do.”

It’s odd, isn’t it, how they always want the one cereal you don’t have in the cupboard?