The Wander Years

I have a cold. I've had a cold all week, since last week. I feel like shite. I wouldn't fancy having AIDS, it'd feel like that only much worse, I imagine.

It has spoiled my enjoyment of life since it started. That's what colds do, they're cunts. Why? Fuck off, cold germs. 

I went to a wedding on Saturday, it was class. We took Sarah to the church, then left her with Tina's ma and da for the after do. It was lovely. The food was amazing, all free drink, good music, good people there too. I had such a lovely time I phoned the groom the next day and said "Thank you for the lovely time". I said more than that, but that's basically what I said.

It was that lovely a time.

I have loads of lovely times. I was talking shite to Sarah the other day, crooning dreadful, redundant streams of nothingness into her wee ears. It was a list of words that each started with wee. It was a lovely time.

I could do anti-drugs ads, with me going "I don't need drugs to have a lovely time". Take note, Quebec Health Club, or whatever the fuck you're called. I'm your man.

Sarah is wee. I am pretty wee too. I think I am below average height. I don't mind. It isn't the handicap it used to be, wee people can join the police now. You don't have to be over 6 foot tall to join. Look at "Toots" in Police Academy. She's tiny.

She has a loud voice, though.

I fucking hate the cold. I couldn't even run in the morning. I could physically run, my legs were OK, but I'd get out of breath. I have stopped not drinking. It feels the same as not drinking, drinking does. It's OK. It was a bit of an anti-climax, having a drink. Either way, it's alright. Both have benefits.

Today, for no reason at all, I remembered an episode from French class at school. We were doing something about pollution, and there was a song that went "La pollution de l'air, c'est aussi mon affaire...". Christopher drew a picture of a plane with all smoke coming out of its exhaust, spelling the word pollution. It was great. I didn't even know that planes were bad polluters, but he did. I only found out much later.

He also, on his first day in French class, apropos of nothing, pronounced Jean-Pierre Papin to be Jewish. I am still not sure if this is true.

The cold has made me very tired. I'm better now, but. 

I had to go to a convalescent home for World War One soldiers. It was at the English seaside, and a nurse pushed me about in a bath-chair for a month. I stared silently at the faded beauty of the south coast out of season, and ate ice-cream.

I'm going to the seaside at the end of the month, incidentally, to visit my uncles in Halifax. 

I plan to have a lovely time.