I stroked a wet dog and then couldn’t work out how he’d got
wet because we’ve had no rain for a week or more, so I washed my hands before
doing my shopping. Is that interesting? Does it make you desperate to come to
tea with me so you can hear more scintillating anecdotes? Thought not, but let
me bore you a little further.
I stroked another dog which had the body of a greyhound and
the head of a pit bull. He was very friendly and his human looked even stranger.
Milk and sugar?
Some time ago I wrote about the young(ish) woman in the
coffee shop who kept staring at me. She was there again today and stared at me
even more, only this time she went a step further. She smiled at me. Two other
young women in different locations also smiled at me. Why do they do that? It’s
unnatural. It worries me a little because smiles can emanate from a multitude
of thought patterns. I’m really not worth smiling at – really – but what the hell. Life is short and smiles are evidently
cheaper than I thought they were. Sorry I have no cake. I meant to buy some
today but forgot.
I think one of the women in one of the charity shops is a
step away from becoming a stalker. She’s taken to engaging me in trivial
conversation every time I go in there, and today she was even more trivial than
ever, only in a more worryingly familiar manner. (I really did have a stalker once,
you know. She got counselling and went away. Her name was Barbara.) Maybe I
should wear a top hat and find a dormouse to shove in the teapot. Would that
help? (Alice in Wonderland seems to
be something of a leitmotif lately. If you’re under thirty, imagine I said
meme. It isn’t quite the same thing but it’ll do.)
Have you reached that state of rigidity yet which obliges me
to call you a cab with a chair lift, or can you take one more? OK.
House is becoming
stranger by the episode. It’s got to the stage where I’m beginning to wish that
I could be as normal as they are. That’s about the wisest thing I’ve said in a
long time, which isn’t surprising because mostly I’m depressed as hell these
days. Being stuck in the swim of cancer screening is a bit like having a ticking
time bomb sewn into the pocket of your jeans. Maybe I’d better not say which
pocket.
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