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That Cool Refreshing Drink Lemonade takes on a whole new meaning when you’re sick. Flat lemonade, I mean. Remember back in school days, lying on your grandparents’ couch, watching daytime TV and hating the taste of Aspro Clear? Drinking flat lemonade was the only solace to a small boy harangued by a pounding headache and recurring vomit attacks. I haven’t been sick like that for years. Until today. I can handle it a bit better now. Instead of watching soaps, I’ve been watching Reagan’s funeral. Fuck me, what a media circus of crocodile tears and ‘what makes America great’. Political greats from both sides of the fence joining together to quote T.S. Eliot and talk about how brave the whole family has been. Another list of his great achievements: freeing the hostages, ummm... being a media darling, Reaganomics, Iran-Contra, starring alongside a chimp, wedding a psychic-believing nutbar. Oh yeah, ending the Cold War. Tear down this wall, Mr Gorbachev – I’m more concerned with the fact that my arse chooses to expel anything I eat within 23.5 seconds of it hitting my stomach. I’ve sprayed that damn toilet bowl more times than Reagan outed Commies in the film industry. That’s political humour. I haven’t spewed yet, but I can feel it welling within me. My body is going to expel the evil attacking it one way or another, and I may as well get used to the fact. There’s a bucket by my side, prepared for the inevitable. I plan to throw up like Mr Creosote: calmly and matter-of-factly, before returning to my work here on the computer. Anyway, sleep usually helps you when you’re sick. You cradle your belly, curl in the foetal position and pray that the next fart doesn’t follow through. You might even indulge in a shiver or two, and reflect that no-one in history has suffered as much as you are right now. Even this simple pleasure was denied to me today, as the bastards across the road chose 8am as the perfect time to commence the demolishing of their house. So here I am, trying to keep my mind off my useless hunger by writing these dripping globlets of wordsmithery. And I still hate Aspro Clear’s faux lemon prevarications, so I’m dealing with a slow, rythmic pounding in my head. Of course, since I’m feeling slow and lumbering, the cat has decided to be a fucking bitch, launching raids on my socked feet at every opportunity, pulling at electrical cords all over the house, and knocking the iron onto the carpet. It wasn’t turned on, but it started leaking some evil brown fluid. Bad times. I’m sure Marnie won’t mind cleaning that up when she gets home. After all, I’m siiiiiiiick. Once she has cleaned that up, she can pamper me by stroking my hair and mopping my fevered brow. Just like Nana used to. Roll on 4 o’clock. The final irony, since I have diarrhoea, is that we went grocery shopping yesterday. A week ago, the cupboard was empty and I could have suffered in silence, hungry but unbowed. Today the fridge is close to bursting with all manner of delicious treats, including a fresh tub of ice cream. Diarrhoea doesn’t stop you being hungry, so I know I’m going to succumb to the pleasures of the pantry at some point today, and immediately pay the price. And worse luck, we have no lemonade, flat or otherwise. |
