Also toast…

I amuse and depress myself equally in contemplating breakfast. I have a peculiar relationship with food.

Driving home after my most recent LLETZ procedure two Tuesdays ago all I could think about was poached eggs. I’d been awake since 5am that morning and had drunk loads of coffee but not gotten around to eating anything. My gut had plateaued at some uncomfortable mid-point between feeling really hungry and just a little bit sick. It was 10am and having just had three strangers staring at my naked nether regions, wondering why the suction wasn’t working, I had more than adequately been “sharp scratched” into painful wide-awakeness. Just on the off-chance that the caffeine hadn’t already hit the spot.

The last time I was in those stirrups I considered digging out a Spring bulb trench. The time before that I decided to get another tattoo. This time it occurred to me that I should have already dug out that trench before the possibility of another period of enforced physical inactivity would certainly push any such project back to October when the ground would be more sodden and harder to work. I could grow my own pumpkins for Halloween next year…`

Winter might provide me with the best opportunity to rehabituate myself back into time stepping, if and when I ever get the house to myself that is. I’m pretty sure I’ll feel compelled to write something obscene in the thick dust covering the polished ply board beneath the bed before I drag it downstairs to the no doubt auditory delight of the neighbours. I’ve felt desperate to dance like no one’s watching since being told I couldn’t. Previous to that moment I can’t say I’d consciously missed it. My insides are still too leaky and fragile to tolerate all that up and downness right now but, in preparation for some full-on riffing and f-lapping, I’m stocking up on calories from jarred confection in order to give myself something to work off. Along with spoonfuls of self-loathing and palm oil guilt.

I drove past the lonely grey horse in the green and yellow (dandelions, not ragwort) field several mornings this week and each time noted that he was chewing on the blue gate again. I don’t know very much about equine behaviour but I know boredom when I see it. It looks just the same no matter how many legs you’ve got. He was clearly missing his sometime companion who wasn’t there and his salt block had become entirely uninteresting to him. I suppose it’s conceivable that paint might just taste better but he was more likely doing his unbridled best to simply distract himself from his own negative thoughts, particularly about the kind of people who drive by and stare like that.

I doubt Ursa Major minds being stared at for protracted periods. Even with a frown on one’s face. Bears don’t have tails. To today’s Western eye – well, to mine – the abdominal section in the sky resembles an unsteerable supermarket trolley and the critterish whole looks more like a flightless drone poised to be dropped earthwards. But its animate wonder is retained in that same misappropriated tail. It actually belongs to an arched, hissing cat about to fearlessly leap out of harm’s way, out into the unknown. That tail will corkscrew with wild intent to ensure the beast always lands on its spiked toes. Its progeny appears to swing from its bunk like a spider monkey until the sun comes up. From this angle anyway. Leaning out of our bedroom window. “The elephant sneezed, fell on its knees and that was the end of the monkey, monkey, monkey…”

The sky sparkled back at the tide-turning full moon one week and a night ago but it’s as grey and uninspired as the bored gelding this damp Sunday morning. The white-washed sun looks to be slowly breaking through, yellowing the pale air and linking my unremarkable, random thoughts into the desire to drive out (drive-thru) for breakfast eggs – which I could then immediately feel bad about for having done so. I didn’t even want one until I remembered there weren’t any in the fridge.

I can’t decide whether I’m amused or depressed by my late morning, tummy rumbling compulsions to only ever write something down when I  have nothing to write about – beyond the thoughts that in the end lead me only to the banana bowl…