Wednesday, 19 September 2012

Islands in the Stream

Oh Aunty M G! Hasn't it been a long time since last my words crept across your eyeballs like the death that creeps across us all? Yes. Yes it has. And do you know why? Well I'll tell you.

A few months ago I went to the doctor.

“It would seem your personality is in remission. I genuinely hate having to tell you that,” the doctor said, smiling.                  

“I see,” I said. “Is there anything to be done?”

“Negative. If I bleed you, it would finish you. Best to make what little time count and all that.”

I left the surgery feeling like wool unravelling. At home I lay on the sofa. The sun licked its way across the carpet, enveloping the extension of my foot with a scar of honey. Before too long, my legs were entirely ablaze. I thought about how fast I'd be able to run if my legs were on fire. Probably really fast.

Sleep ate me.

I found myself standing in a maze of pavements holding an artisan roll shaped like my face (yes, it was really massive). The baker who had made it was standing in front of me. I took a bite.

“Your chewing sounds like an alien invasion, dear, but that doesn't mean I love you any less than I did this morning. Far from it,” the baker said.

“How far?” I asked.

“Walk with me and I’ll show you.” We set off down the street, the houses leering like rowdy workmen. The doors wolf whistled as they opened and closed.

“You could wear this day, dear,” said the baker. “It’s just your colour.”

I wasn't sure whether he was speaking in flattery or foolery, but I tittered like a lady in waiting nonetheless.

We crossed a golf course. The place had been abandoned for years. The ghosts of golf balls winged over our heads. Children sat in the bunkers building sand châteaux.

“If a chateau is not old, it must be grand,” he said impatiently. “Children can be so juvenile sometimes.”

We walked to the pier. The baker slotted a clean 50p into the mouth of the binocular viewer and invited me to take a look.

As was to be expected, an island loomed. It was made out of Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers.
They relied entirely on one another to stay afloat.

Distracted as I was, I didn't notice the baker pushing me into the water. I woke up, drowning.

There’s nothing quite like a near death experience to cure all ills. After that I was fine, but then I had to do my dissertation and a Fringe show, so I've been really quite busy. I did have another thing I wanted to talk to you about, but I'll save that for next time since my true life story has already taken up so much of your precious time << LOLJKS! You clearly don't count time as a worthy commodity if you're browsing the internet at this time of night...loser.

LOTS of Real Love!

1 comment:

  1. If I shot Kenny Rodgers would Dolly Parton drown? I have wondered this for many years. Also you write good words and shit.