What just happened? Seriously.
In the time it takes to bat an eyelid or eye up a bat, the fuck got all clustered and the fan got covered in shit. The toast hadn’t popped yet, the coffee still undissolved in the mug. Even the early bird hadn’t caught and devoured its worm. Far as the day was concerned the early bird was still dozing, ready to battle on with the days events.
And then kerplunk. Into the deep end. Raised words, things cancelled, people thrown into disarray. What could we do but do our best with what we had? We just had to survive. And if we prospered at this and even managed a minor net gain, then all’s for it. Let’s give it a kebab and see how long it lasts on the rotisserie.
End of day, end of play, all still alive. More than expected of us achieved, all’s seemingly good.
More poo for the air conditioning unit though; roasted for not having all the answers to questions we’d never even been informed of. If I ever hear the number 8000 again I’ll punch the living daylights out of it. Let down and felt unnecessarily set upon. This is an ill week.
Then, when things seemed like their absolute nadir, I wake up with a purple blister the size of Northumberland on my finger and no colour in my cheeks.
I visit the hospital and ask to get it checked out. I’ll buy some Diet Coke later and I look forwards to an evening on the couch.
It’s five days later and I’m still in hospital with a cannula in my hand and my other hand wrapped in bandages. Septaceamia they call it.
I call it typical of my life.