Shattered dreams and lavatory etiquette

It is official, I’m a cripple, destined to pass my days on the touch line with my hands in a barbour jacket and my feet in a pair of Wellington boots, unable to run or participate in “impact sports” or those “putting an unnecessary amount of stress on your spinal column”. A metaphorical sledgehammer has been taken to my sporting career, which is now confined to cycling, light paddling and photography. Has anyone seen the upper-body on a cyclist? Bradley Wiggins has the physique of a sparrow with glandular fever. So, by and large, I have passed the recent weeks capturing the soon-to-be past glory of my crippled body....accumulating 56 pictures....with other mediums remaining untouched.

I also have a problem with going to the loo, at work. It's not a biological thing, more a question of the lesser intelligence of my fellow workers. They appear to possess an inability to recognise when a cubicle is engaged and therefore should wash and dry their hands, keeping them far away from the light switch that unsurprisingly covers the room in a sheet of darkness( there are no windows), meaning that those inside a cubicle are forced to remain regally seated for an indefinite period of time or one just might elect to carry out a daring dash for the lights. This was the dilemma I was faced with. I made the dash, breaking free from my cubicle of comfort and security. Trousers up, but not buttoned, belt askew, hand on switch( light), eyebrows up and mouth shaped in a perfect o....was the image that one of the Pablo’s was greeted with when he opened the door. I looked not unlike a small, night faring marsupial with a giant.... argentinian, all judging flash light glaring down on it.

“Hello Pablo...”
“Hey Freddie what you do like this?....it dark.”
“Congratulations Pablo, astute as always. Yes, it is indeed dark.”
“Why you no use light eh?” he squeaked back.
“Mainly it’s because I enjoy the constant threat of your kind disturbing my blissful defecation, the buzz of a night bombing session, driving without headlights or maybe it’s just because I enjoy these mid-wipe conversations. Christ Pablo, you are a pathetic human being.”

So, now I have yet another reason to suspect that the stickiness of free thought hangs in the air...like a well beaten child, they can sense smell danger. The colonial landslide is brewing. Pablo, along with his little fleet of Pablobians, shall be the first to bear it’s full, Anglophonial weight.

Mmmm, what else. Ah, yes.....we nearly killed our cat. I don’t like cats but that feeling is yet to motivate me towards killing one. How did this happen? Someone, not myself, decided it be a mighty fine idea to adorn the cat’s neck with beautiful jewellery, more specifically: sparkly bracelets and what not. A glorious idea this may indeed sound, injecting beauty and, quite frankly,drawing the attention away from its ridiculous facial structure and pathetic whiskers,yet in practice one should probably make sure that the bracelets can be removed...with ease.In short, what followed next was a scene from Joseph Fritzl's cellar. Somehow the cat managed to get a bracelet stuck in its mouth, a bit like a horse’s bit, thus was forced into being pinned down whilst they were cut off.Operation Pussy Jewellery Removal lasted 20 minutes. The cat didn’t leave its box/bed for 24hours.....brilliant.