Get up. The wee fella is downstairs watching cartoons. I make breakfast. Crack four eggs. Whip em up. Good strong wrist action. Add salt. Heat oil in a pan. Pour in eggs. Grill bacon. Once cooked, chop and add to the eggs. Serve immediately. Savour.
Read newspaper. Online. Can’t be arsed running down to shop. Watch WWE. Bored. My son says I have no taste. As well as being a rubbish cook.
Apart from this he’s being very affectionate. I love you, dad – he says – so get used to it. But don’t cook for me. Takeaway everytime.
Drop him off at his mum’s. Barely stop the car. That’ll teach him.
Go to the gym. Strip. Change. Cardio. Run for first time since hurting ankle. Breathe don’t wheeze, I tell myself. Swelling in ankle. Move to weights. Chest and arms. Don’t look at belly in the mirrors. Too many mirrors. Back in changing room. Strip and shower. Sauna. Shower. Steam room. Wheeze. Feel phlegm being loosened. Cough. Nowhere to spit, so I swallow. (Sound familiar ladies?)
...I did say it was a Gordon Ramsay voiceover ...admittedly with Billy Connolly’s sense of humour. (If I have offended your sensibilities please go to www.fuckedifIcare.com for a half-arsed apology)
Shower. Jacuzzi. Shower. So clean I squeak as I walk back into the changing room. Dry. Friend comes over to talk. He’s naked. I’m seated. And freshly nauseous. I think of somewhere I could spit phlegm. Dress. In the cafe, I order coffee. And cake. Sit and watch second-half of football match. Sip coffee. Push fork into cake. Place moist sponge in mouth. Savour.
Go to movies. New Moon. How can a film about vampires and werewolves be so wet? Feels like I’m back in Jacuzzi. What a bag of shite. Save your money. Or throw it away. Better still, take a tenner from your wallet. Pick box of matches from kitchen cupboard. Scratch. Spark. Flame. Burn.