Thursday, 11 December 2008


It’s not much to ask Santa for is it? I do not want a Cartier watch or a Bang and Olufsen tele, I’ll settle for a simple tom tit. A modest enough ambition, especially when one has not been for weeks and lost hope of passing a load without the aide of an epidural and forceps.

Some people are plagued by bunions or varicose veins, with me it’s my bowels, they have seized up and last weeks breakfast has established squatters rights in them, which adds a new dimension to the term down in the dumps. What does one do next I ask myself.

In desperation I have stuffed laxatives down my throat to the point where I practically choked, naively believing the claims on the packet, which turned out to be a load of diarrhoea despite not inducing any in the human condition. The only dividend I received from these shop soiled panaceas was a series of feeble sphincter rattlers, which did nothing to loosen up my mood or anything else. Another ploy was to raise my legs high when sitting on the bog, an activity which shifted nothing, but did result on me falling off and banging my head, which at least took my mind off my concrete guts.

What next I ask myself, just because I live in a dump, is it too much to expect to be able to have one every now and again? But, life moves on even if my innards won’t, and Christmas in already on the doorstep, so raise your glasses to a merry Yuletide. Bottoms up.

No comments: