You know you like it really

Thursday November 17, 2005

I think my brain cells depend on a fresh supply of coffee to function and allow me fully to observe and become part of the morning world. I stood at the kitchen sink, glass of cold water in hand, and wondered ‘what am I doing here?’ Not for the first time.

Didn’t improve much as I drove over the early morning road to Spilsby, through the town, and into the car park by the doctor’s surgery where I was booked in for my fasting blood test at 09:10.

There’s only one fun thing about sitting in the chair while the phlebotomist takes a small vial of your juice and that’s to watch the stuff bubble into the little tube. This particular lady has never struck me as a fun person, however, and she covers the tube and needle with her hand, all discreet-like, so’s the faint hearted can’t see what’s going on. Spoil sport.

It was all over in a couple of minutes and, having donned coat, hat and gloves, I strode off, back into the frosty morning. Nipped into the Co-op for breakfast supplies and some fresh baked crusty rolls for lunch, and then returned home, my brain cells still firing slightly off to one side, wondering why I was making them work for their living before hitting them with my morning caffiene jolt.

Graham had a large mug of hot steaming coffee waiting for me as I bustled into the kitchen, bringing the bracing morning air with me. Oh, boy, but that brew tasted good.

“All ok?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. It is now, anyway.”

“Can I see?”

I pushed my sleeve up my arm to show off the little plaster that marked the invasion point slightly above my inner elbow. “Nothing much there,” I said.

“No. Disappointing, really.”

“Tell you what. I’ll let you rip the plaster off in about an hour just so’s you can share.”

“Oh, goody.”

I went on to eat a light breakfast and to get my morning writing session done, then felt decidedly dozy.

“I think I need a bit of a nap,” I said.

“Right. Off you go, then. I’m going to go out, cut the grass, and tidy the garden up a bit ready for the viewers on Saturday.”

“You’re a better man than me, Gunga Din.”

“Who’s Gunga Din.”

“Oh, I dunno. Someone in Kipling, I think.”

“Who’s Kipling?”

“Stop pulling my leg and grab a hold of this plaster.”

There was a distinct element of evil in his grin as he ripped the plaster off in one quick snatch, taking a few small but exceedingly painful hairs with it.


“Oh, come on. You know you like it really.”


Sunrise over the hedgerow



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