I woke up early.
My head felt like the bed had slept on me rather than me sleeping on it.
Why do you wake up early when you have no reason to and sleep in when the 5am alarm goes.
I slept in my jeans and a t-shirt.
That’s a time saver.
Grab a can and go to the front door.
It’s sunny, and apart from the birds, there is nothing happening.
The world sleeps.
I open the can and take a sip.
And.
Nothing.
Tastes like Tuesday
And Wednesday
And Thursday.
I sit and listen to the birds for a bit.
The posty appears from around the corner and shakes his head as he drags on his cigarette.
“That stuff will kill you.”
Sure.
So will cancer.
War.
And erm, cooked rice left at room temperature.
Which is a bit of a fucker given my love for curry and Chinese food.
Fuck it.
I go back inside.
Shower.
Change.
And I’m going for a jog round the neighbourhood.
I see myself in the mirror. The shorts I bought for the holiday last year. T-shirt.
My biceps have started to lose some definition. Used to be a time that would have sent me on a week-long expedition to the gym or poring over protein and carb content in the kitchen like some deranged nuclear scientist.
Now I just shrug.
That’s for later.
Now.
At 6am.
I’m hitting the streets.
For exercise.
I look in the mirror.
That stuff will kill you.
Okay, Fuzzy Warlo is hitting the street.
I lean down to tie my lace and I find I’m sweating like I ran a marathon. It feels like the contents of my stomach are about to introduce themselves to the carpet, and I feel my head spin a little.
I stand back up.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
That will do for stretching, I guess.
I get to the pavement as a car races by, music playing, and the soundwave hits my head like a punch.
I stop and lean forward and spit onto the ground.
The postie is over the road and shouts across.
“Should I call the paramedics now?”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”
He laughs.
“No worries.”
And I start moving, slowly, very slowly. I feel like more sweat than man, my stomach is doing something unusual and there is a light pain in my chest that I am thinking is just a stitch. Come on, you old bastard, let’s get going.
I get to the end of the street and turn to cross the road when the postie pulls up in his van.
“Don’t worry, big man, I’ll come to your funeral. I’ll even do the eulogy. He was a fat bastard, no doubt. No, actually, he was a fat fucking bastard with a belly like a Buddha with a problem saying no.”
I look at him, that fucking moustache and that fucking smile, and I feel something rising through me.
And I spew all over him, through the open window.
