Only at Codger Mansions can you find disabled moths. On Tuesday a diminutive moth was writhing on the games room floor and going round and round in circles, which seemed to be the product of one of its wings being defective. I am not an insect murderer generally and given my current anxious state of mind I prevaricated for a full ten minutes deciding whether to put the moth out of his misery or whether to simply usher the insect outside. The moth kept up the circling routine for the full ten minutes and I admired his fitness, strength and determination, though the poor beast must have been quite dizzy. Eventually I thought that the most humane course of action was to end the moth's days as I strongly suspected that he would never recover from his serious injury so I impaled him on the skirting board. I do hope a fellow moth did not spy me squashing the crippled insect as I could be up in front of the insect court for mothslaughter, or even worse, murder.
If
the moth was known to have been depressed because of his wing wound I
might be accused of assisting suicide and this may be illegal in
Mothdom, as it is under the laws of England & Wales. If a moth
equivalent of the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland exists, I am not
aware of it and your actual Dignitas would most probably tell the
maimed moth to buzz off. All in all I am comfortable that I can be
that I took the correct course of action, though I fear that after
today's wasp incident that it has left me a bloodthirsty desperado
wishing death on innocent insects.
Earlier
today in my mother's garden wasps had enacted a pincer movement
against my mother and she was surrounded, so she instinctively threw
a banana skin across the other side of the table in hope that the
wasps would be attracted to it instead of her. Mom shouted out her
displeasure at the pincer situation so within an instant I had acted
to counter attack the wasps and I slain one (that was showing an
interest in the banana skin) with a vicious and fatal blow using a
paperback book. I usually simply encourage wasps to fly away but
such was the stressfulness of the internet shopping that I was
ensconced with that it pushed me to the brutal act. The deceased
wasp at least had the honour of dying in battle and I hope his family
take comfort from that, though I hope the military hierarchy save the
family from the embarrassment of knowing that the fallen wasp died as
a direct result of a genuine banana skin fiasco.
Prevaricating
is not something that I can afford to do in banging out this column
given that it is Thursday evening and print deadline is Friday and
tomorrow will be taken up (as the rest of this week has) looking
after my dear son Kenteke. If truth be known dear Kenteke has
probably been looking after me as opposed to the other way round and
being in his company has dragged me out of the low mood that I have
been suffering in the aftermath of the demise of the Imp and Alfie C.
Anyway, if this week's edition seems more rushed and of a poorer
quality than normal (if normal does indeed exist in these pages) then
that is because the column has been hastily written and edited and
as a consequence it is fundamentally sh*t.
At least as from yesterday I have the benefit of Wifi again which means I once more have access to the indispensable Thesaurus.com, which has more to do with the composition of this column than I do (after all I am only the author.) Lowlife might give the impression that I have a certain amount of command of the English language and a more of less adequate vocabulary but nothing could be further from the truth. If it were not for the invaluable assistance of Thesaurus.com, these pages would read like a birthday card written by a three year old, or worse still Wayne Rooney's autobiography penned without the aid of a ghost writer.
Talking
of virtual illiterates, Barty Hook paid a visit to the parish on
Sunday in order to attend his late Uncle's funeral on Monday and I
offered poor Barty my sincere and heartfelt condolences for his sad
loss. Anyway, Barty insisted that I attend the Flagon & Gorses
on Sunday evening and my regular reader will know that I do not
normally need a second invitation for such frolics on the Sabbath but
on this occasion it posed me difficulties due to the meagre amount of
pennies in my dwindling coffers. I could hardly turn Hook down in
the circumstances. Barty kindly offered to see my all right, but in
my depressed state I feel it hard to accept kindness and besides it
would mean I would owe Hook a favour, which he would most likely call
in at the most inopportune juncture humanly possible, just to put my
large nose out of joint.
I
realised that I needed to develop a new drinking strategy in order to
sustain myself through the evening to manage on the paltry budget
that I had. I refuse to drink in the house before I go to the pub as
I see this as common in the same way that many people view me as
common. After giving the poser a few moments thought I deduced that
if I drink half pints I would slash my expenditure by a handsome 50%.
The downside to the strategy was that it would also reduce my
alcohol volume by exactly half, so development of the approach was
needed. I decided to alternate halves of stout with halves of real
cider, which in theory should have the effect of slowing down my
consumption and as a consequence make my pennies last. It would be
like an off key and long drawn out snake bite. I am delighted and
proud to say that the plan worked out a treat, in fact it worked out
too well and I was in a more tipsy state than if I had drunk the
equivalent amount of halves in pints but sticking to beer. So a bit
of fine tuning is needed.
Monday was most definitely a classic day of two halves and ironically two halves is all the Pirate would allow me to consume, more of which shortly. Monday morning was characterised by a world class display by me of crying and being unable to move off the sofa and it is the best I have done at this depression lark since I sank into it. I eventually managed to mobilise myself mid-afternoon and I went for a long and reinvigorating walk in the fresh air and sunshine, which culminated with me ambling towards Halesowen town centre. Although I am not mathematician, I calculated that I had enough cash in my pocket to buy three halves of beer, so I rewarded myself with refreshment I the Flagon & Gorses. Although the ramble had done me the world of good as soon as I had parked my rear in the bar I felt very low again and unusually for me being in the Flagon, I had no desire to talk to anyone so read the newspaper, or tried to but I could not concentrate on it. When I was about to finish my second half the Pirate, sensing my impoverished state, offered to buy me a pint and despite my prolonged efforts to decline his kind offer he furnished me with a pint, followed latterly by another. The hour or so I spent conversing with the Pirate, the roguish landlord of the Flagon, was a welcome tonic and it was the first time I had laughed or smiled that day; my mood was lifted immeasurably.
Today
brought the first session of a more formal variety of talking
therapy, being counselling. The first appointment of a course of
counselling usually consists of a bit of horseplay, whereby the
counsellor tries to discover your problems and background and you
simultaneously try to suss out the counsellor; it is like psychiatric
flirting. The counsellor had an Ulster accent, which I always find
oddly comforting and trustworthy. I say “oddly”, given the
conflict that raged in Northern Ireland throughout my childhood and
until very recently. When my elder brother, the Albino, and I were
kids if we were to visit Birmingham city centre my Mom would always
caution us to be careful, given the IRA pub bombings in 1974 and to
this day I always have a sense of uneasiness in the city centre. In
the late 1970's I was unlikely to visit a public house and if an
incendiary device had of gone off there would have been little I
could have done about it anyway, but Mom's anxiety over the matter
was of course perfectly understandable. I return to the counsellor
next week for round two, where I hope I can get my filling-laden
teeth into the matter and turn the flirting into proper intercourse,
but not of the sexual variety you understand.
©
Dominic Horton, August, 2013.
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