The seven year old walks with his mother. I’m cold he says, I don’t want to walk anymore he pleads. A strop is imminent. The mother, sharply, to nip this in the bud, we are not getting an Uber to school. She takes his hand tighter in hers and walks at a higher pace, forcing him to match. No chance to complain as he is now out of breath walking at 100 miles per hour and the cold can’t get to him quick enough.
In the steam room. You know someone is naked and in very close proximity but you can’t see them and don’t want to move in case you get too close. It’s a nervous wait until they reveal themselves thudding and slapping across the wet floor.
Girlfriend sees boyfriend staring. Staring at the two girls all dolled up on a Friday night. Girlfriend isn’t happy. You can tell by the stony look on her face, hardening and glaring at her boyfriend and the girls opposite who are happily chatting away, oblivious to the relationship drama that they have caused. The girlfriend tugs at her boyfriend’s arm so that he now looks at her. She stares deeply into him, boring holes, checking for chinks in his love for her. It’s quite the deep look and although momentary, she slithers her way through him, looking in all the dark holes and blind alleys, up and down, searching for doubts, confusion, secrets that he thought had been hidden so well that even he had forgotten about. It’s quite the sight, a person looking into someone and knowing them as well as one could ever do with no words, no language spoken. After scrutinizing and finding nothing that would have caused her to get up and leave him without another word, she leans forward, only a bit for he has to make up the distance, another test of his commitment, and they peck lips. She feels secure in herself and the future of their relationship and the boyfriend got a kiss. Win win.
The poo won’t stop staring at me, I’m out of the shower and drying off and the poos is still there, still bobbing up and down in the toilet. I’ve given it three flushes, each time increasing the length of my pressing of the button in the hope that one more stream of water will carry it away, but to no avail. It’s stuck there and is still staring. It was a good, honest poo to be fair. A solid, all out in two pushes, long and connected, rather than crumbly, pebbly or squitty. It must mean my diet is okay at the moment which I’m glad about. But now it is stuck. And in a house share, that’s rule number one, never leave your poo’s a floating. It’s bad manners is what it is. But what do I do? The antique plumbing can’t handle the heft. But in all seriousness, I am truly embarrassed. I keep flushing and it is still there. I dry myself, I put on deodorant, I floss my teeth, brush my teeth, mouthwash and it is still there. One more flush I say to myself as I put on my dressing gown to go to my room. I flush, I hold, I watch as the water goes from heavy flow to a slim trickle and still the poo stays. I’m not breaking it up I promise myself. So I do what I think is right. I open the window as far as it can go and I pull down the toilet seat lid and hope that my housemates end up blaming one another for this horror and I get away Scott-free.
I’ve noticed that the bell-peppers in the supermarket have got steadily worse in quality. Have we finally got to the point where a pissed-off Europe tired of our misdemeanors and general wanker attitude is sending us its cast offs. They no longer care to pretend anymore, to fake amicable relations, they’ll go through all their produce, keep the good stuff for themselves and their friends and allies, but the shit, that will just be piled up, not given a second glance as it’s rubber stamped, put on a cargo ship with a one way ticket to England. And which we will have to accept and deal with until England reaches temperatures where we can grow our own ‘EXOTIC’ fruit and vegetables. So, hurry the fuck up climate change.
James Creber 