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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Raise your glasses high...

Whipping through my photo archives, I've taken a lot of photos of pub interiors in my time. They are shadowed only by photos of (a) pints of beer; (b) He Who Only... looking a bit bored; (c) pictures of myself in mirrors in public toilets when I've been drinking that never look good the next morning; and (d) photos of graffiti.

All of the below are various pubs in the locality. I like them all, for a variety of different reasons. But I am not going to talk about them at all. Instead, I am going to tell you the tale of what happened to me almost a week to the day.

The morning started off well, in that I got out of bed in time, managed not to immediately burst into hot, angry tears at the thought of yet another tedious fucking day alive and breathing and having to go to work, think about money, contemplate my future, do some more study, contemplate my own navel and also answer someone else's phone calls for seven and a half hours a day. No, that morning I even managed to sing along to Dusty Springfield in the shower and raise half a smile at poor He Who Only... who has become accustomed to having to hide under the duvet for fear of missiles flying on his head most mornings. He was even brave enough to declare that today would be a good day and that "nothing bad would happen". We've had some bad days recently, you see, and it seemed like we deserved a better day, and why wouldn't it be today? It surely must be today.

I decided against wearing my brand new boots, because I've not quite got the hang of walking in them yet and by the end of the day I'm walking like someone with two ankles on each foot, and a right dose of rickets. I decided instead on my runners that have stars on them, which look like something Avril Lavigne would wear (and secretly that's why I like them). I left in good time to catch the train in, and had plans to pop into the New Look to buy something cheap and made by 6 year olds in sweat shops on the way to work to cheer up my miserable life.

So that's where my mind was at just after 8.15am when I crossed the road across from the train station that I have been crossing for over two years now, and the next thing I knew, I was thinking to myself "Oh, I seem to be falling" and then I fell and kept falling for what felt like about five long, falling minutes.

I cannot tell you in words the pain in my knee. I cannot describe for you the feeling of my knee. I can't explain to you anything at all about my knee, other than the fact that I had really, really hurt my knee and now the world needs to end because dear God, the feeling in my knee is too much. It really hurt, is what I'm saying.

But not as much as the pain in my hand. Oh, the pain in my hand. And there was blood and bleeding and the pain in my hand and my knee, and I can't even stand up. I can't even stand up, so now I'm sitting on the pavement by the edge of the road and I'm laughing because the pain in my knee is so intense that it is actually comical and the pain in my hand and it's bleeding and oh I really should have stayed in bed this morning.

The gloriously nice thing about this experience is what happened next. A man walked past me and towards the train. A second man walked past me in the other direction. And a young, black teenager, all hoody and mobile phone with tinny shitarse music playing out loud, all attitude and chewing gum and inappropriately bulky trainers, he stopped and asked me if I was okay. And I was laughing, still laughing and I said yeah, and he said, are you sure, and I said, yeah, and so he kept walking. And I wanted to hug him so badly, and tell him that I was always sure those little hoodies wanted to stab me in the face and run off with my iPod, but he had changed my mind, but I couldn't tell him that because I was still laughing and the pain in my knee was getting better and worse at the same time.

Another lady came over and knelt down beside me and asked me if I needed some help getting back up and I said I didn't, but I just needed to get my breath back, and she said she'd wait for me, and so she did, and I stopped laughing finally and she helped me back up and then asked me if I was okay, and I said yes, and then she crossed the road behind me and I limped onwards towards my train, sat on the train for 10 minutes examining the bleeding cut on my hand, realised that I was starting to shake and my teeth were chattering, and I turned around and came home again and then burst into tears in He Who Only...'s arms.

The long and short of it all is that my right knee is completely black and blue and fabulously interesting looking, and only today is it able to go up and down stairs in any comfort. My left knee, which was also left cut and bleeding, has been a lot better in comparison to it's brother knee, and is merely blue, green and yellow at this point. My right hand, when it stopped bleeding, has healed up nicely and we'll say no more about it. My left hand, however, only started being trouble the following day and a week later, I am now convinced I may have broken a bone in it.

And this is why I keep complaining about everything. And this is why I haven't been blogging recently. It's all just whining and complaining and broken bones and bruises. But some lovely illustrations, I think you'll agree.


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