One Sugar, Two Feet
Fortune favours the old
Decrepit as can be in my armchair
Reaching for my cup of tea shaky handed worrying about the cup wobbling more of it’s contents out into the filling moat around it’s base
Why not a mug, why do I put up with cups and saucers with the new technology these days?
Fuck it it’s on the floor. It dropped.
I dropped the bastard.
And so began my life
It was the firstday and also somehow the middleday and lastday too.
Everything existed in that moment and that feeling perpetuated all. I was that invalid. That man. That outcast. That illegitimate child of the nation. That which hath been spat out onto street which is already caked in filth and gum-spots. Are they gum or cement or something else?
It was a Wednesday when the man came to fix the telly. It was on the blink again and I can’t afford to get a fridge magnet let alone a freeview gidget. So he came. He came and saw and tinkered. He stared at me and I knew he didn’t like my feet.
I can’t blame him. I don’t like my feet. They stink, they are shiny, they have hairs on them, they are not of this earth. Middle Earth perhaps. But most of all, they are bare. I do not wear shoes. Why should i? it’s my house. I don’t walk out any more. If I want to walk around in my own home with no shoes - ZERO shoes - then sod it I’m going to do that. You are not going to dictate to a stupid old man what he keeps on his feet.
He drank his tea. I knew he would if he made it. He did make it. He was in the kitchen just the right amount of time. Some of them linger. Pilfering I doubt, but going through and gendering at it all. Twinkling their eyes that might alight upon a gimbo or two in there.
He drank his tea and he messed with a phone and he talked to his depot and he had a screwdriver out and he glanced as often as a pig rolls in it’s dirty muck muck at my oh so terrible feet.
When he’d gone, I noticed two things. One, the TV really wasn’t much better. But I’m not going to call him back. I can’t get channel five and I can’t get channel four but it’s no great loss to me. I don’t want to watch people getting eaten by wild birds.
Two, he’d had about four sugars in that tea of his. How did he drink the stuff. I noticed sugar grains scattered over the surface by the kettle and I walked over a load of them on the floor. I suppose some of you will say I wouldn’t have done if I’d been wearing footwear, but to me that is just another reason not to. How else would I truly have known his depravity. I checked the level and sure enough I could see about four had gone. Maybe even five spoonfuls. And not cheap ones either. He didn’t skimp, old Television Man.
And so I will not be inviting him back. I will not recall him. He is not in my favour. He can stare at some other poor old man’s feet until they turn blue and drop off this moratorium through thrombosis. I’m not having him in my house again.
I take 1 sugar. And that is how it should be.
Decrepit as can be in my armchair
Reaching for my cup of tea shaky handed worrying about the cup wobbling more of it’s contents out into the filling moat around it’s base
Why not a mug, why do I put up with cups and saucers with the new technology these days?
Fuck it it’s on the floor. It dropped.
I dropped the bastard.
And so began my life
It was the firstday and also somehow the middleday and lastday too.
Everything existed in that moment and that feeling perpetuated all. I was that invalid. That man. That outcast. That illegitimate child of the nation. That which hath been spat out onto street which is already caked in filth and gum-spots. Are they gum or cement or something else?
It was a Wednesday when the man came to fix the telly. It was on the blink again and I can’t afford to get a fridge magnet let alone a freeview gidget. So he came. He came and saw and tinkered. He stared at me and I knew he didn’t like my feet.
I can’t blame him. I don’t like my feet. They stink, they are shiny, they have hairs on them, they are not of this earth. Middle Earth perhaps. But most of all, they are bare. I do not wear shoes. Why should i? it’s my house. I don’t walk out any more. If I want to walk around in my own home with no shoes - ZERO shoes - then sod it I’m going to do that. You are not going to dictate to a stupid old man what he keeps on his feet.
He drank his tea. I knew he would if he made it. He did make it. He was in the kitchen just the right amount of time. Some of them linger. Pilfering I doubt, but going through and gendering at it all. Twinkling their eyes that might alight upon a gimbo or two in there.
He drank his tea and he messed with a phone and he talked to his depot and he had a screwdriver out and he glanced as often as a pig rolls in it’s dirty muck muck at my oh so terrible feet.
When he’d gone, I noticed two things. One, the TV really wasn’t much better. But I’m not going to call him back. I can’t get channel five and I can’t get channel four but it’s no great loss to me. I don’t want to watch people getting eaten by wild birds.
Two, he’d had about four sugars in that tea of his. How did he drink the stuff. I noticed sugar grains scattered over the surface by the kettle and I walked over a load of them on the floor. I suppose some of you will say I wouldn’t have done if I’d been wearing footwear, but to me that is just another reason not to. How else would I truly have known his depravity. I checked the level and sure enough I could see about four had gone. Maybe even five spoonfuls. And not cheap ones either. He didn’t skimp, old Television Man.
And so I will not be inviting him back. I will not recall him. He is not in my favour. He can stare at some other poor old man’s feet until they turn blue and drop off this moratorium through thrombosis. I’m not having him in my house again.
I take 1 sugar. And that is how it should be.