Sodomy

Today, the fog was up instead of down, blowing like steam across the city. It looked all crinkly and ruched, bunched together in some places and vapour thin in others. It billowed and rippled and sailed, chasing its tail round the Pacific Press building. It looked cheerful, as weather goes.

I ventured forth, as well, a big black smudge against the grey. A little gloomy thundercloud followed me, raining drearily on my head. I've got a cold, see, the most dreadful sort of scratchy-throat nightmare, and I hate going out in the fog--and I still haven't found a new Rat's Nest. As if that weren't bad enough, I left my shoes in the solarium last night, and they went all spongy on the insides. I think some dampness got into them, some miserable dew. That dew settled in nice and deep, so I wouldn't notice it when I slipped my feet in, then soaked straight through my socks the minute my feet hit the pavement.

That was my first foray out. I had to go to the bank, which was quite a momentous event, seeing as I've never been before. When I opened my account, the bank manager came by my flat with all the necessary papers, and whenever I've got a cheque, I deposit it by post. I hate banks, with their high ceilings and velvet-roped queues. I hate queues, really--that's the thing. The British may be known for their love of queueing, but I bloody loathe it. I mean, I didn't have to queue, since I'd gone in to see the manager--but the queue was there, and I had to walk past it. I felt frustrated by association.

Later on, I made a second trip, this time to see about a flat. I was well bushed by that time, so I decided to use my wheelchair. (As testament to my exhaustion, I was about to continue thus: "Walking, after all, is for the birds," which is patently ludicrous. Who, after all, ever heard of a walking bird? Little birds hop, and water birds wade. Ducks waddle, eagles soar, and emus and ostriches run, but I've never heard of a walking bird. Walking, then, is for the tortoises. Those of us in the know, we roll.) Anyhow, I decided to go in my wheelchair, to meet this prospective landlord. If one must appear infirm, after all, it's best to do it in a respectable sort of way. Wobbling about leaning against walls, I find, just tends to make one look drunk. Not quite the first impression one likes to leave.

The landlord and his wife were both at the meeting, a nice Japanese couple. Or, that is, they seemed nice, to start with. Later on--I mean, I could've misheard--I hope I misheard...but I'm getting ahead of myself. These two, see, they were like a lot of folks who speak more than one language: they assume no-one else in the world could possibly understand the second language, and use it to conduct private conversations in public. I wasn't listening at first. It's not nice to listen in on private discussions, after all (and, besides, I barely understood). Then:

"Yada yada yada yada. Yada yada. Yada yada dead?"

"Yada yada...said--yada yada--one year."

"Yada yada--live that long? Ha, ha!"

I really, really hope I didn't catch my prospective landlord wondering aloud if I'd live out my lease. What a terrible omen! I'm supposed to get the verdict on said lease tomorrow. Maybe I shouldn't move in, even if I do get it. What if they've put the hex on me with their evil conversation? What if they've prophesied my death under their roof, and, by thinking it, made it so? I mean, I've been a bit under the weather lately, but I'd like to think I've got more than a year left on the ol' candle!

Ah, ah; I probably misheard completely. I mean, I'm positive the old lady said "dead", and then her husband said something about the lease, but I couldn't make out some of the words in between. It could've been perfectly innocent:

"Are you sure all the mice are dead?"

"Positive, but the exterminator said they'd be back within one year."

"And she'll be trapped in the lease that long? Ha, ha!"

Brilliant. Now, I'm going to get mice? I hate mice. They eat everything, including the walls, and then one doesn't get one's security deposit back. Not, of course, that I've ever had mice, but there are some things one just knows one wouldn't like. Anal sex, for example, or lima beans.

One day, I'm going to look back on all this. I'm not sure quite how I'll feel about it, but there's a good possibility I'll laugh. There may even be nostalgia involved. I used to have this giant rat, right round the turn of the millennium. 2003, maybe, or '04, I got her. Oh, I can't remember. It's been so long. Any road, me and this rat, we got bounced round the city like balls in a pachinko machine. Gor, but I miss that rat. Choked on a piece of orange peel, poor thing. I only have these scars to remember her by....

Faugh! Now, I've gone and put the hex on Stella, too. If she dies by choking, I'll be to blame. Mark this moment, for I have chosen it to damn my rat.

Any road, I'd best head off to bed before I mention anal sex again. (Augh, I just mentioned it! What? Anal sex! Oh, no! I said it again! Anal sex! Anal sex! Sodomy!

...

...

...sod off.)