Lying curled in the darkness, he tried to resist the
temptation to hit snooze. No, he thought, turning onto his back and
kicking away the bed covers. Today is going to be different. Today I’m going
to succeed.
Ten a.m.
was far earlier than Doug usually got out of bed. Normally it was more like
dinner time.
The cluttered room seemed
strangely unfamiliar to his bleary eyes. Piles of books stood like miniature
models of Babel, though some were more like Pisa, complete with ashtray
battlements manned by old dog-ends with filter-tip muskets.
Every surface that was not piled
high with books or ashtrays was strewn with pieces of paper in various sizes
and states of repair, scrawled with notes and ideas and lists of 'Things To Do
Today'.
The sunlight that streamed in
through the narrow window caught every mote of dust thrown into the air by the
discarded bed covers that knocked a Pisa into a Babel which, in turn, sent its
full contingent of dog-ends to infiltrate the carpet.
‘Damn!’
Doug threw his legs over the
side of the bed and stood up amid the wreckage of his bedroom. He'd clean up
later. It was time for breakfast.
He looked around for his
dressing gown. Where had he put it? Normally it lived amongst the pile of dirty
clothes at the foot of his bed.
He began to search through the
sock-rich deposit of t-shirts and jeans. Then he remembered. Hadn't he begun to
do some laundry a few days ago? Had he succeeded? If so, what had happened to
it?
The vision of clean clothes made
him smile. Today will begin with clean underwear. He tore open the top
drawer of his cupboard. “Ah.”
He had definitely not succeeded
in doing any laundry previously. One lone sock stared up at him from the white
drawer, its tutti-frutti colours highlighting that it was not even one of his
own.
Oh well, he thought, closing the
drawer. He left the room wearing only the off-white boxer shorts he had slept
in and the day before yesterday's black socks.
He walked into the kitchen and
filled the kettle. Bacon and eggs and a cup of tea. Today will start
with a good breakfast. He opened the fridge and removed a half-full packet
of smoked bacon. It was two days past its 'Use By' date.
Doug looked at it. Little
rainbow ribbons glistened when he moved the packet from side to side. It was as
though someone had treated the surface with a thin layer of petrol.
He sniffed the packet. It smelt
like smoked bacon. He turned on the hob. The frying pan was already there,
pre-lubed with the congealed grease of a previous day's bacon sandwich.
Doug took a table knife from the
sink, wiped it on his boxer shorts and wrote his name in the white fat. Once it
had melted, he put the remaining rashers of bacon into the pan and turned back
to the fridge for the eggs.
‘Damn!’
There was nothing else in the
fridge except an almost empty tin of baked beans that had developed a downy
fuzz and a cucumber that had entirely abdicated any semblance of structural
integrity and was now trying to spread itself as far as possible in directions
that, presumably, it could only have dreamt of in its solid form.
Miles away, the kettle clicked
off the boil. Even though he knew the answer already, Doug re-scanned the
interior of the fridge.
‘Damn!’
Reassess,
Doug thought, looking into the frying pan at the bacon that was almost ready. No
milk. No eggs. He scratched his chin and the solution came to him.
‘Sandwich,’ he said to himself,
nodding. He opened the bread bin and removed the contents.
Three slices of green-blue,
dusty bread and a ginger-nut biscuit. Oh well. At least I have a
biscuit. He popped it into his mouth.
‘Eugh,’ he said as he swallowed.
‘So that's why no-one keeps biscuits in the bread bin.’
He reassessed again. It was a
beautiful day and he needed to do some shopping. So, the only thing to do was,
therefore, to do some shopping and enjoy the beautiful day. Doug smiled to
himself and began to ponder the problem of where his laundry might be.
The washing machine, of course.
Doug nearly laughed out loud at
the obvious logic of it. He knelt down and opened the port-hole door. A smell
reminiscent of freshly cut turf met his nostrils.
‘Damn!’
He felt the mash of sodden clothing. Why
hadn't he hung the load outside to dry after the spin cycle had finished last
time? Oh well, he thought, setting the machine to 'Fast Coloureds' and
closing the port-hole door. It would be clean again by the time he returned
from the shops with breakfast. He switched off the hob, went back into his room
and uncovered a curry-stained pair of blue jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt
that he had worn all last week. Then he headed outside into the sunlight.
That was
a narrow miss.
Doug congratulated himself as he
side-stepped the large dog turd that lay just outside his front door. As he
walked past the coatings factory at the bottom of the hill, he waved to the
handful of workers that were having a cigarette outside the gate.
“Good morning,” a large lady in blue overalls called over.
“Good morning,” Doug called back.
It’s
actually morning!
He mentally congratulated himself again.
As he walked towards Yazeem's
Corner Store he thought, Today would be a glorious day for a walk in the park.
He paused at the door.
If truth be told, he really
wasn't all that hungry. “The park first, then,” he said to himself. “It'll give
me an appetite.”
He walked down the cobble-stone
short-cut, past the ruined graveyard and entered the park, thinking about
nothing in particular. The little stream glittered beside the path and Doug was
only too happy to enjoy its distracting reflections as he walked along.
To his right, a black poodle was
doing its very best to run through the symmetrical gardens carrying a stick
nearly as large as itself. Doug smiled.
Those poor tulips, he thought, as he reached the
fork in the path.
The duck pond was outside in the
spectacular sunshine but the hot house was itself spectacular. All those cacti
and living stones and avocados. Not to mention the carnivorous plants.
Doug had briefly kept a small
collection of Venus fly-traps and pitcher plants by his kitchen window before
they all succumbed to hypo-hydration.
He sat down on a bench to mull
over the possibilities. Suddenly, a great cloud rolled across the sun and
opened itself out into a sheet of rain. The breeze picked up enthusiasm, hoping
to be promoted to wind. Doug suddenly found himself cold and soaked through.
Oh well, that solves that.
He stood up, put his head down
and made for home at a hasty saunter.
Once he was
in through the door he put the kettle on.
‘Damn,’ he said as he remembered he hadn’t gone to the shop
yet.
‘Damn,’ he said as he looked down at the half cooked bacon
in the frying pan.
‘Damn,’ he said as he looked from the washing machine to the
window.
‘Shit,’ he said as he went to take off his shoes and noticed
the faecal footprints that led back to the front door.
‘I'm going back to bed.’
About the author:
Bio:
Andrew Kerr is a Belfast-born writer
living in Vietnam whose short fiction explores humour, memory, and the small
absurdities that quietly shape everyday life.
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