It’s miserable out there. Miserable, I tell you. I’m looking out at this rain hopping off the street and I’m asking myself what the hell I think I”m doing. I’m coughing and sneezing. My throat feels like a monkey sandpapered it and my head is throbbing. This is a day to be home, tucked up on the sofa with a duvet, a hot whiskey and a good detective novel.
I want to run out and scream at the rain. Stop fucking raining, d’ya hear? Stop it!!
But of course, I now there’s no point screaming at rain. Even I know that, but sometimes, the weather gets so miserable we become irrational, not to mention irascible, and run around shouting orders at the elements.
Stop, damn you!
It would be much better if I had a walking stick or something to shake at the sky in fury, and it would come in very handy for shouting at urchins as well. Clear off. Get away. Clear off!!
It would also come in quite handy in my declining years for helping me to stand up. Even now, I make little involuntary grunting noises when I move, and they counterpoint with my involuntary cursing in a manner most people find deeply unnerving.
Aaargh. Fuck you! Grunt. Bastard! Oof, my knee. Fuck off.
It’s called getting old. You curse at non-existent enemies and groan at the pain of ancient injuries, which reminds me. That wrist I broke all those years ago falling off a bike is hurting like a bastard right now due to the cold and damp. The ankle I broke playing soccer is giving me hell. The elbow I broke in an argument with a motorbike is saying, Bock, I’ve been talking to the other bodily joints. Go home and give us all a rest. Just go home, why don’t you?
I think that’s a sensible elbow. I should listen to it. Home. Sofa. Warm duvet. Hot whiskey. Good book.
Can you spot anything wrong with that picture?