What I have for breakfast in the morning: Bran Flakes, with part Soya milk and part skimmed milk because there isn’t enough Soya milk to cover. They can’t call it Soya milk because it’s not really milk, so they call in Soya Light because Soya bean juice doesn’t sound that appetising. I have been using Soya Light for two months now because I like the taste of it – I swapped from milk because my osteopath suggested I try it for a few weeks to see if I am intolerant to dairy.
What I am not intolerant to: Dairy.
What my head says to me this morning: I’m still hurting you. It’s not stress. It’s not a tumour. It’s something else, but I won’t tell you what it is. It’s been four months now but I’m still not going to tell you. I feel frustrated, like it’s blowing a childish raspberry at me.
What my wife says: Go back to the doctor.
What I worry about while chewing my fingers: Losing my job because of my illness and the relaxing work loads.
What I see on the drive to work: That schoolgirl who walks as if she has a second brain that controls the lower half of her body; a brain that has fallen out with the one in her head and no longer talks to it, but does something different just to spite it so that from the waist down her body twists and turns in the opposite direction to her upper half as she walks. Everything about her is uncomfortable; alien. I think that she’ll have muscular problems and maybe joint problems when she’s older.
What I do when I get to work: Make a doctor’s appointment.
What I think I’ll say to me wife if we go volunteering in Africa: Let’s stay, we make a difference here. Fuck our life back home, fuck it all away. Let’s stay here and help these people. Let’s dance with those we have helped and who are now fit and strong again, our feet beating down on the skin of the earth. Let’s stay here, please?
What the doctor says: Go and see a neurologist.
What I am doing: Concentrating on writing, so that I can put flesh on the bones of my dreams.
What happens on the drive home: I go past an old friend’s house who normally has his car in the driveway but today it is not there and his parents have left no room for it by the way they have parked their cars. I think maybe he has left home sometime since I last saw his car parked there, he has his own place know, experiencing his own things and living his own life. I hope he is happy because he used to have a problem with drugs and he’s too nice to ruin his life hanging around the people he took them with.
What the cats want: One wants cuddles, one wants food, and the other wants to be left alone atop the fridge where the compressor’s operation has created a warm spot.
What my wife and I do: Laugh at how Luciano Pavarotti sings La Traviata because we think he sounds like he’s singing “oh elephants yes!”, instead of singing about drinking from the joyful cup.