the smell of sick on my pillow. I’d dreamt that Aggi and I had swum across a tropical ocean to lie on a Bounty chocolate bar type island. I clearly remembered feeling the sun on my back and neck, the sand clinging to my feet and the cooling sensation of the wind against the droplets of water on my skin. It seemed so real. Then suddenly I was awake. The essence of the dream only lingered for the duration of the journey from deep sleep to total consciousness, but for that short time I experienced the sensation I imagined others felt when they said they were on top of the world. Then WHAM! The nail-bomb exploded. Aggi was gone. She didn’t want me. It was finished. Over the following weeks, my first waking moments followed the same pattern – an overwhelming feeling of ecstasy followed closely by the distressing hollowness of reality. Gradually, the length of time it took for me to realise Aggi was gone grew shorter and shorter, until one day I woke up crying. By then, I think, the Message had finally made its way through to my heart.
I turned over, squashing my face into my makeshift pillow. It was too late. My brain was in gear. Saturday had begun.
I’ll have to tidy the flat .
I’ll have to phone people .
I’ll have to mark 8B’s books .
I’ll have to sort out my life .
I rolled over onto my back. Staring out of my left eye I checked the time on the alarm clock. I’d set it for 1.00 p.m. hoping to sleep most of the weekend away. The digital display, however, confirmed with its authoritative blinking eye that I’d been way too optimistic.
A huge, unnatural, pulsating pain throbbed its way across the front of my skull as if the rear wheels of a Shogun were running backwards and forwards over it. The severity and suddenness of this migraine attack had me worried. As I rarely got so much as a headache, within half an hour I’d selected a brain tumour from a list of maladies that included: beriberi, encephalitis and Lhasa fever, as the chosen explanation for my throbbing temples. Death by brain tumour was, after all, an unfulfilling way to die. While the most popular characters in soap operas got to die in car crashes or at the hands of mad gunmen, those at the other end of the scale were always written out after coming down with a mystery illness that, surprise, surprise, turned out to be a brain tumour. One bald haircut and a chemotherapy storyline later, and they were gone forever. This was exactly why I was going to die this terrible death. I was being written out of existence by a medical condition that was the disease equivalent of a pair of flares.
Attempting to endure the pain by diverting my attention to the state of the room, the thought entered my head that, possibly, a little bit of suffering would make me a better person. This wouldn’t have been particularly hard as, thanks to Martina, I was more overloaded with self-loathing than usual. Sometimes, I thought, I’m born to suffer. This, I noted, was the second time I’d contemplated Catholicism in the last twenty-four hours. I’d always thought I’d make a great Catholic. I quite liked Italy and found the smell of incense reasonably relaxing. If I had converted – from what I didn’t know – I could’ve been up there with the greats: Joan of Arc, St Francis of Assisi, William of Archway – patron saint of crap housing.
Fortunately for me, my aching head and the Pope, my mother had packed a bottle of paracetamol in one of the boxes scattered around the room. Lacking the motivation to phone Nottingham to see if she could remember exactly where she’d put them, I found what I was looking for, but not before I’d emptied the contents of all four boxes on to the floor. My hand was forced. Now I really would have to tidy the flat.
I gazed longingly at the translucent brown bottle in my hand. The name on the front, Anthony H. Kelly, was my dad’s. He’d had them prescribed for him when he’d had flu two years ago, which was precisely the
I turned over, squashing my face into my makeshift pillow. It was too late. My brain was in gear. Saturday had begun.
I’ll have to tidy the flat .
I’ll have to phone people .
I’ll have to mark 8B’s books .
I’ll have to sort out my life .
I rolled over onto my back. Staring out of my left eye I checked the time on the alarm clock. I’d set it for 1.00 p.m. hoping to sleep most of the weekend away. The digital display, however, confirmed with its authoritative blinking eye that I’d been way too optimistic.
A huge, unnatural, pulsating pain throbbed its way across the front of my skull as if the rear wheels of a Shogun were running backwards and forwards over it. The severity and suddenness of this migraine attack had me worried. As I rarely got so much as a headache, within half an hour I’d selected a brain tumour from a list of maladies that included: beriberi, encephalitis and Lhasa fever, as the chosen explanation for my throbbing temples. Death by brain tumour was, after all, an unfulfilling way to die. While the most popular characters in soap operas got to die in car crashes or at the hands of mad gunmen, those at the other end of the scale were always written out after coming down with a mystery illness that, surprise, surprise, turned out to be a brain tumour. One bald haircut and a chemotherapy storyline later, and they were gone forever. This was exactly why I was going to die this terrible death. I was being written out of existence by a medical condition that was the disease equivalent of a pair of flares.
Attempting to endure the pain by diverting my attention to the state of the room, the thought entered my head that, possibly, a little bit of suffering would make me a better person. This wouldn’t have been particularly hard as, thanks to Martina, I was more overloaded with self-loathing than usual. Sometimes, I thought, I’m born to suffer. This, I noted, was the second time I’d contemplated Catholicism in the last twenty-four hours. I’d always thought I’d make a great Catholic. I quite liked Italy and found the smell of incense reasonably relaxing. If I had converted – from what I didn’t know – I could’ve been up there with the greats: Joan of Arc, St Francis of Assisi, William of Archway – patron saint of crap housing.
Fortunately for me, my aching head and the Pope, my mother had packed a bottle of paracetamol in one of the boxes scattered around the room. Lacking the motivation to phone Nottingham to see if she could remember exactly where she’d put them, I found what I was looking for, but not before I’d emptied the contents of all four boxes on to the floor. My hand was forced. Now I really would have to tidy the flat.
I gazed longingly at the translucent brown bottle in my hand. The name on the front, Anthony H. Kelly, was my dad’s. He’d had them prescribed for him when he’d had flu two years ago, which was precisely the
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