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Throwing up
24 June 2005
Good grief. Who would have thought the old man to have had so much matter in him? If I’d wanted to lose weight, I’d have gone on a diet, or exercised, or whatever the latest fad is. I like fads. But I would never have picked purgation.
Still. If you’re going to throw up anyway, doing it in bed only makes you feel worse. I am discovering a whole new spectrum of ways and means of throwing up: at the computer, checking e-mails or writing weblogs (yesterday, one sentence; today, ooh, paragraphs. Though they are taking their time, and hiding hiatuses. Hiati. Whatever); in the front room, watching - God help me! - Wimbledon (tennis is not a sport, it’s an exercise regime. Biff-boff, hurrah, boff-biff. It’s like watching unattractive people in a gym); in the back yard, in the sunshine. Today I was adventurous past measure, and walked down the road in the rain, all the way to the cemetery. Somebody’s tidied up Joe’s grave, and taken away all the flowers. To be sure, there is no merit in dead flowers, but it seems a little ruthless. I threw up on the way home, but I can hardly claim that to be a comment, in the circumstances.
I’m sorry, this is just so much more information than you need. That’s the peril of weblogs, you see: unpoliced, at either end. Just ask the archbishop.
© Chaz Brenchley 2005
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.