Resolve December 30, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Maybe I’ll find some resolve in time to have a resolution for 2008.
But I do have hopes for 2007. Or rather, a hope. By this time next year, I hope to be living under round-the-clock medical supervision in a house by the sea. I hope to spend much of my time there, while not having my drip changed, looking out over the water. Occasionally, I will get restless, and the friends and medical staff – all female – looking after my every need and whim will rush around in a panic, flashing each other concerned looks and wondering what the best short-term solution will be. I will shout for wine and fags, and wine and fags will be provided.
From 2007 onwards, I will only be wheeled out into public for the rarest and most important of social events. The assembled company will be thankful that I seem to be in a restful near-coma, attached to my drip, in a distant corner, but I’ll aim for a scandal-count of at least one per occasion. Just when others are settling nicely into tiddliness, I’ll rip my drip out and start banging my walking-stick loudly off the metal frame of the bed (I’m chained to). The men present will drink on. I’ll hear, “Just ignore him,” in manly tones. But some of the ladies will dutifully spring up. Once they’ve given me the necessary dosage of oxygen for me to make an utterance, I’ll wheeze, “Speech. Speech.” A wet flannel will be applied to my wrinkled, sweaty brow. “I won’t be ignored,” I’ll add, glennclosishly, “like some kinduva cunt.”
“He wants to say something,” the ladies will say fretfully to the men.
“Let the old bastard speak,” the men will answer, taking hefty swigs and realigning their balls as one.
And then I’ll heave myself up onto my elbows, see the eyes piercing my frail frame, and start spewing forth some vitriol, with targeted attacks on each of the people present. “I never liked you,” I’ll start bitterly, targeting the best-looking man present, “and as for your wife…” And then my elbows will slip, and I’ll crash back onto my bed, and then I’ll be heard to burst into unmanly tears, and the one woman who’s decided that, in spite of such a performance, I still deserve to be looked after, will reapply the damp flannel and say, “There, there, BiB. Helga (or something) dab it better.” And I’ll be rechained to the bed and wheeled to the most distant (and soundproofed) room of the house by the sea.
Or maybe I’ll just stay here after all.