How the Hell can someone have B.O. at 8:45 in the bloody morning? How?!

Friday, 1 September 1995 9:14am

I’m here.  I made it!  Roasted – purified – by the flames of public transport.  Lordy it was a trial.  You just never know what’s in store for you.  I’m standing there at the tram stop, waiting to be whooshed along tram arteries to the sticky furious heart of the city, pounding, pounding, pounding.  I get on, move to a spot with comfortable body space.  This fat slag gets on with all her schoolmates and starts complaining stridently about how much space there is in the middle, and how rude it is that the people there won’t bunch up.  I was mortified, could feel eyes on me. I should have turned and retorted “Listen LARDO, if you want some more wobble-space, then come and get it.  I’m not standing any closer to anybody than I absolutely have to.” But I didn’t. I’m too damn meek. Too damn afraid of making a scene. I should have gone down and snotted that fucking twit right in the gob, maybe slow down the prodigious feeding process for a day or two.  SLAAAAAGG!!

Then I get on the Collins Street tram, and I’m in the middle again, bunched up a little closer because the tram was already crowded, thinking to myself that no-one’s gonna have a go at me here… and I get a whiff of someone’s armpit.  An armpit that was obviously washed not with soap in the shower, but rubbed vigorously with a slice of pizza in garlic-bath. How the hell can someone have BO at 8:45 in the bloody morning? How?!  If I was taller I wouldn’t have this problem, I’d tower elegantly, authoritatively above, my mind devoted to nobler, tall thoughts.

You know those spider bites (that’s what they are, that’s what they are, that’s what they are) are not getting much better.  I wont’t delight you with details Sis, but I’m getting worried that I’ll wake up one night and see tiny, eensy weensy spiders streaming out my four wounds, like some arachnid Jesus.  Maybe my followers instead of drinking wine and eating wafer will bite down on the Communion Spider, and drink the Holy Venum.  A true test of faith in the transubstantiation doctrine. (Make of that what you will.)

Now someone’s having a birthday, aren’t they? Yes yes yes! Happy Birthday Sis, and if it wasn’t your birthday when you started reading this letter, it probably is by now.  Happy Happy Birthday. Balloons and streamers all ‘ round. Good health and good cheer, rah rah rah! Now for the real business end.  I’m renewing your Cleo Magazine subscription.  I know it’s not terribly imaginative, but I’m pretty sure it’s what you want, yeah? If no, just mail ’em back to me, I can use the health and beauty tips you know.  There’s also a package coming.  I’ll mail it on Monday to make sure you’re on tenterhooks of anticipation for a few days (or maybe I won’t mail it at all, remember the glow in the dark stars episode on the train? Fiendish!).

But for now, I must be off. I have banking awaiting me, then to home (definitely not going for drinks. No no no), then to Leah’s to visit the new house and see an old friend I’ve been avoiding (wish I could keep avoiding him really), and then to sweet, sweet rest.



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