I was going to write a piece — it was going to be brilliant — then I got distracted, and I forgot what I was going to write.
The Drinking Problem
You see, I’ve been drinking; it’s been a shit year, a shit week, and a shit day, one made all the worse by an ongoing issue with my sister — so here I sit thinking — what the fuck was I going to write about? I know it was good, boy, that lightbulb moment illuminated the room — but what the fuck was it?
A Bottle of Bordeaux and a Cheeky Lie
I think I know the problem here; I’ve had a drink — I’d even forgotten that I’ve just said that — one bottle of Belle France Bordeaux — a cheeky little number from Aldi — only the best at Chez Blackmore.
Wine Talk and a Little White Lie
It’s not been a good wine, but I’m not going to whine about it. I’m no wine snob; as long as it’s red, maybe white, never rose — ok, I lied there; as it happens, I’m pretty partial to a nice chilled English rose.
The Playful Mood and Sleep Deprivation
I have no idea where I am going with this, but I’m in a playful mood and in the mood to write. It’s the middle of the night, and thanks to yesterday, there is no way I’m going to sleep, so I might as well try to Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive. Sod, this I’m going to bed.
The Next Day, the Crisis of Conscience
It’s the next day, and now I’m cleaning up my mess and seeing if anything I wrote made sense. Actually, I was cheating; I wrote that line before I went to bed just to remind myself that this was the direction I was going in, but now I’m having a crisis of conscience about lying. Sod, this I really am going to bed.
The Price of Drinking and the Pain
The next day, honestly, I promise. I’ve paid a heavy price for my drinking; my gastritis is giving me hell, as I sort of expected it would. There is no such thing as a free lunch — or, in this case, a drink. I like to think I’ve got a handle on that now. Then again, pain is a great moderator. What is it about getting old and pain? And not just the sort you can feel.
The Rainbow of Pain and Existential Questions
I once tried explaining to a consultant at the pain clinic that my pain washed over me like colours; it was never consistent, like having your body undergo a gorilla artist attack. The enemy never stayed in one place, and you could never win. Today, I have a whole rainbow of pains and rattlecans cascading through my body. And some in my mind.
Back to Square One: What Was I Going to Write?
I’m not sure how I got here, blimey; now that’s a question and a half. Do I mean here on the page, like how did we start talking about my pain, or am I having some kind of existential crisis? Did I tell you it’s been a shit year? If only I could remember what I wanted to write — it was going to be brilliant.
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