Blue Whale On A Bed Of Nails

I’ve been awake since 3.45 am. I got up to take a piss and then went back to bed. Big mistake, I should have got up, made a coffee and started the day early. Instead, I lay there in the darkness thinking weird thoughts for three hours until the alarm went off at 6.30. Now I can’t get a song out of my head that I think I made up around 5.20. It's got a great bass line and the words Sellotape and Lubricate are playing havoc with my brain cells. But I can’t remember the second line. I also can't get an image out of my mind of a blue whale on a bed of nails.

Yesterday's underpants are on the floor, and as much as I try to avoid them I just seem to stand in them and pull them up. I’ll put new ones on later, after my shower. Mind you, I think I said the same thing yesterday.

Coffee, that’s what I need. Hot, black coffee and maybe a slice of toast with that lovely cream cheese spread that I adore. I open the breadbasket and see that the loaf is a slight shade of green. No matter. Heat kills all germs, so I put two slices in the toaster. The kettle boils, and I stir the instant decaf coffee into the mug. Has to be decaf, doctors orders. Which reminds me to take my blood pressure tablets. I take three, I have no idea what they’re called or why I take them. But I’m still alive, so they must be working.

It’s only then that I notice the two empty wine glasses on the kitchen table and remember last night. Brenda came round for a “chat”. She does that quite often. She’s ten years younger than me and recently divorced. She always turns up with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and makes herself comfortable on the sofa. We drink and chat, and then she leans back and gives me “that look.”  That look is my permission to dive in and dive in I do. It’s quick and messy but wonderfully satisfying for both of us. It fulfils a need. Brenda always says 'thank you' afterwards, which I think is a nice touch. Thirty minutes later and I’m taking another bottle from the fridge, and we start to chat again. Last night, Brenda went home about 10.30 and I went straight to bed.

The toast is ready and quickly covered in the cheese spread, I take a seat at the table. My daughter keeps on at me to get a dog, and it’s times like this that I think about it. But then reality kicks in and I think about having to take it out in all weathers, getting someone to look after it when I go on holiday, and carrying bags of shit. The thought of having to carry around a bag of someone else’s shit through the streets was never in my plans of retirement. And, what do you do with it when you get home? You can’t put it in your kitchen bin, it would stink the house out. So, you’d have to keep a separate bin in the garden, just for bags of shit! No, the dog idea is a no-goer.

I’m meeting the boys later today. Why on earth I call them “the boys” I don’t know. The youngest is my age, 56, and the rest of them are in their sixties. We all worked at the factory together and I’ve known them all for well over thirty years. We were all made redundant last year when the owner of the factory sold out to a huge American company. But to be fair to the boss, he was very generous and gave us an excellent redundancy package. I even got to keep my company car.

The boys are talking about a golf trip to Portugal. I fucking hate Golf, mainly because I’m useless at it. But it should be a laugh and I’m sure one or two of them will get really pissed and behave like teenagers.

I need a haircut, so I’m going to the Barbers at 9.00 am. It’s one of those fancy Turkish places that’s not really Turkish. My barber is a cockney Albanian who seems to love setting fire to my ears and then sticking wax cotton buds up my nose and pulling out all my nasal hairs. It hurts like fuck but does the job. I usually come out of that place clean, fresh, but smelling like a tart's boudoir.

Then I’m off to the Sports shop to get a new pair of trainers. I’ve worn Adidas for about forty years and every time I go to get a new pair I convince myself that I’ll have a change and get Nike. But I never do. My late wife Joan used to go mad at me, “You always get the same bloody shoes, have a change for christ sake!” she’d yell at me in the car. I miss Joan.

The toast is finished, the crumbs get stuck in my chest hair, doesn’t matter, they’ll get washed out when I have a shower. The coffee has hit the spot and now it’s time to watch a bit of News on the TV. I don’t know why I bother really. It’ll be the same as it was yesterday. The wars will still be going on, there’ll be talk of peace, but both sides will blame each other for the lack of progress. Someone will be running a marathon to raise money for someone who recently passed away, we’ll be told about the weather every ten or fifteen minutes and there’ll be a celebrity whose written a children’s book and suddenly thinks he’s a bestselling author. Sod it, I’ll just put the radio on.

My phone rings. It’s only 7.15 and my bloody phone is ringing. It’s my daughter Amy.

“Morning darling. Everything okay? Yes, I’ve taken my tablets, Yes, I know I’ve got to pick Ben up from school tomorrow. Yes, I’ve remembered that he doesn’t eat meat or drink Cola. No, I don’t think he’s got ADHD, he’s just a young boy with a short attention span who gets bored easily. Okay, see you tomorrow.”

I put the phone down and suddenly remember the second line of the song. Sticky and Slippy! Is Slippy even a word? No idea, but I’m singing it in my head. Time for a shower.