Monday, 10 July 1995 1:11pm
Oh-my-God-oh-my-God it is so Goddamn cold here I’ll be lucky to make it home with all my extremities. I tell you Sis, this weather really makes me respect English streakers. You have to have enormous dedication to the cause of public nudity to get your gear off in this type of weather. It’s like 4 degrees here. I’m so damned cold. I’ve got my bulky jacket on again, only this time I’ve got the hood on to keep my noggin nice ‘n snug. It looks a bit funny, sure, but it beats having to run my ears under the hot tap in the toilet to stop them sticking to the phone with freezer burn.
A reasonably quiet weekend. Spent half of it in front of the fire with Flaubert’s “Madame Bovary” and a glass of Opal Nero Black Sambucca (yum) and the other half up a ladder in the bathroom with a bottle of Exit Mould, defrosting the ceiling, I had to actually put the ladder inside the bath. So I’m clinging to this ladder with a spray bottle of Agent Orange in one hand a cloth in the other thinking “If I fall off this ladder, no-one’s gonna know. If I don’t turn up at work, they won’t send anyone for at least three days. If I fell and snapped my spine Christopher Reeves style (OK, so toppling off a ladder in your bathroom isn’t as glamorous as flying from a horse, but the principle’s the same), there’s gonna be at least four days between fall and rescue, what with Mum being overseas with you and Dad probably at some all-you-can-eat Ceylonese restaurant. Four days. Face it J, you’ll probably end up having to drink out of the toilet. These are the things I think of when cleaning. It’s my version of Domestic Occupational Health and Safety. I think of all the horrible things that can go wrong and I take a bit more care. The thought of drinking toilet water has to be conducive to safer ladder procedures and techniques.
The Nylex Clock says that it’s 3 degrees now. When you’re typing, that’s only one third of a degree for each finger. It doesn’t make for ideal keying. I hope you appreciate my sacrifice. Actually, typing keeps the joints form seizing up.
So tell me Sis, what are you doing for entertainment these days? I mean, you can’t be doing the baby thing all the time, and even if you are, what did you do for entertainment before, and what will you do for entertainment once the novelty of your baby wears off and you sneak her into Mum’s bags before she leaves? Is that joke in poor taste? I’m such a lousy arbiter of taste, I’m never sure whether or not I’ve exceeded its boundaries. So back to my original point, whaddya do for kicks these days? Do you go to nightclubs? Pubs? Friends’ houses? Do you go to Homeless Shelters for a good gloat like I do? Personally, I can see you as a big Bingo freak. I can see you there, with your five games simultaneously on the go, with BIG hair, BIG nails and BIG expectations. Naah, that’s a bit cruel. Maybe Hurling is your game, you know, that mad Irish game where they whack each other in the face with big sticks and then throw a ball in to make it resemble a sport of some description. Perhaps you’ve taken up knitting. Do they have team knitting events? I wonder if they’re allowed to share needles?
Too cold to type.
Picture J included with his letter