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.”
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.”
“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.”