Swimming against
the Tide
Life can sometimes be like swimming to the shore against the tide and
just when you get near the shore a big wave comes along and pushes you back
from your goal. On the beach you can see
people enjoying themselves, playing games, reading books whilst sunbathing,
eating ice creams and they all seem to be laughing and smiling and having a
great time so you swim even harder as you desperately want to get there to join
them but again a big wave sends you back to whence you were before. All of this is exhausting but you know you
can’t give up as the only other option is to drown, to sink into the deep and
cold oblivion. But if you do eventually
make it to the beach it might be night and all of the people might be gone and
if you are no longer struggling in the sea time could weigh heavy on your hands
inviting thoughts of loneliness, doubt and desolation. At least toiling along in the sea, striving
to swim to the shore, there was hope to cling onto.
As you can see from the above, I have been in a chirpy mood this week.
Willy Mantitt was in a
chirpy mood on Friday with it being his birthday but only up to the point of
opening his present from his beloved Mrs Manitt, which knocked the spring out
of his step as it was revealed to be a full BUPA medical examination, including
a prostate check. Little did Mantitt
know that the gift from his spouse would culminate in him being fully exposed
in a surgery with a cold handed doctor shoving his fingers up Willy’s
aris. Not my idea of happy
returns. I have heard of people being
gifted experience days but this is a new one on me and it is not quite as
exciting as getting to drive a Ferrari around Brands Hatch. The thought of Murray Walker commentating on
Mattitt’s prostate check procedure did at least make me titter.
Titter ye not was the
order of the day in the middle of the night on Friday when I was awoke in my
bed by chilling screams from my next door neighbour who seemed to be having a
nightmare the scale of which put my regular night terrors into the shade. I haven’t heard my neighbour screaming like
that before so my guess is that the phantasm that habitually visits and plagues
me at night had one too many and ended up in the wrong house. We’ve all been there. Given the success of the phantasm in
eliciting a horrified reaction from my neighbour he might stick with him in the
future and leave me alone, which would be a welcome relief for me after I have
had to put up with his demonic hauntings for the last quarter of a
century. That said my poor neighbour
might not have been dreaming at all but he might have been watching the cricket
and screeching at the dismal batting collapse by England in first Ashes test
match against the Aussies.
The family of poor
Moritz Erhardt have been having a waking nightmare this weak as the 21 year old
German died of an epileptic fit after working 72 hours straight in the city for
Bank of America Merrill Lynch. Erhardt’s
tragic demise has highlighted concerns that young city bankers are being put
under undue pressure to work unreasonably long hours to further their careers. As I also work for a bank I can feel a wave
of concern for my welfare from all my contacts and associates but they need not
worry as I do not plan to work three days straight but to stick to my usual
time frame for working 72 hours which is roughly a fortnight. Working seven hours on the bounce is more
than enough for me but unlike young city bankers I am destined more for the
scrapheap than for greatness and riches.
It is just as well, as I don’t think I would look right in red braces
and a handmade suit though the ridiculously big bonus would, well, be a
bonus.
Christmas looms large
and the goose is not getting fat and worse, I haven’t even got a goose. And if I did have such a bird he wouldn’t be
a happy chappy living in the bleak garden at Codger Mansions though he would at
least get some nourishment if I took him for a walk up the Flagon & Gorses
where the kindly parishioners of the pub would feed him with pork
scratchings.
It will soon be time
to drag the Christmas tree out of the cupboard for its annual airing. It is a pitiful sight. It is one of those synthetic trees that you
simply unfold and it already has the lights attached, so like meals from the
Rhareli Peking Chinese takeaway it is high on convenience and low on taste. Even when enhanced by a bauble or two the
tree looks more barren than Duncan Goodhew’s head and standing there wistful
and forlorn in the living room it has the appearance of an umbrella that has
lost its cover in a violent gale.
Mention
of the festive season brings me onto the
Lowlife Christmas appeal. The
horrific and tragic tale of Toby In-Tents tipping a whole bottle of Ouzo down
the sink as he “didn’t think anyone would want it” (see Lowlife 37) highlighted
the inexplicable phenomenon of people having unwanted booze in their cabinets
and larders that is gathering dust, only to be disturbed on the death of the
owner or a house move. If you have any
superfluous alcohol in your storage do not leave it unloved, unwanted and
abandoned and do not turn it out callously onto the streets but donate it to
the Lowlife Christmas appeal so it
can be rehoused in a home where it will be cherished an appreciated, namely
Codger Mansions.
Despite stories to the
contrary in the media, booze, even purchased from supermarkets, is not cheap
and a night out in the pub is even more expensive so many people are struggling
to afford to go out in these times of austerity. With this in mind it was with great surprise
this week that I learnt that according to the official
National Survey of Sexual Attitudes and Lifestyles that sex is on the
downturn as apparently modern life is turning people off it. Instead of the recession leading people to
indulge in the free (or at least cheap) act of having a bit of slap and tickle
it is actually having the opposite effect.
Dr Cath Mercer, from University College London, said: "People are
worried about their jobs, worried about money.
They are not in the mood for sex.”
The study also suggested that modern technologies are also getting in
the way of sex as gadget obsessed individuals are busy p*ssing around with
their tablets, mobile telephones and laptops instead of fiddling with their
partner. Couples could try to
incorporate their gadgets into their sex lives to kill two birds with one stone
as mobile telephones do vibrate after all.
The
study found that the average person has sex five times a month, which must be
once a week and additionally once more for good behaviour. Chance would be a fine thing. Apparently even men aged between 65 to 74
have sex on average 2.3 times per month which means that my septuagenarian
friends Tomachezki and Harry Stottle are getting it more often than I am. The 0.3 in 2.3 must account for times when
the act is prematurely ended after one of the participants false teeth fall
out, being the ultimate passion killer.
The reek of the foul
soup that I brewed yesterday would be another passion killer if a lady ever
dared to venture over the threshold of Codger Mansions. Other than a few notable exceptions my soup
making prowess is generally pretty good so I was disappointed with myself for
making a hash of a veritable cauldron of carrot and coriander soup, which I
concocted in order to use up a number of carrots that were on the turn, as I am
not in the habit of throwing food away.
In fact if I had made a hash instead of soup it might have turned out
better. I now have the task of trying to
rescue the batch of the odd and unappetisingly coloured liquid and I think even
the Red Adair of the soup world would struggle to get the situation under control. In my experience a dish that has gone wrong
is almost impossible to successfully turn around. The main problem with the soup was the lack
of carrots and the abundance of coriander but cooking, like life, can be a fine
balancing act. But unlike the daring,
legendary trapeze artist Charles Blondin (who amongst other feats tight roped
over Niagara Gorge, sitting down half way to cook and eat an omelette) my sense
of balance is poor which is why I fall down so often, in the metaphorical and
not the literal sense. But I get myself
up, dust myself down and defiantly in the face of adversity start the long and
wearisome swim to the shore once again.
© Dominic Horton, November 2013.
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