Moving Target, Volume 3, Issue #2, Spring 1992
by Scoop Smiley
Jeez, I love my days off. The alarm will go off at the usual ungodly hour, I'll wake up, push Mr Sandman aside momentarily rearrange my genitals (maybe into the shape of a nesting swan) do the solutions of the cross around the warm womb-like flannelette sheets, followed by the "World in Action" figure, give the clock and the courier business the fingers then full pike back under the sheets. I repeat this process every hour or so just to remind myself that it's still my day off of course, that I'm still anatomically correct.
When I'm tired of this (around twoish) I'll bounce up and into the kitchen to put on the Mocha pot. Ah, there's nothing like getting wired from the off. On with the tape deck for a spot of necked funkiness at Vol. 10, I jus' lerve dancin' in the buff.
After leisurely dressing I find myself in quandary. Should I stay or should I go (out)? You see, I've found that if you go out, the day goes faster but if you stay in it drags. So I skin up a herbal ciggy to contemplate this theory, put the Mocha back on, select another and take my clothes off for another celebratory dance. Someone calls round, a bloke from the next street to ask to keep the noise down. We exchange a few words. I give him rapprochement and secundum, he gives me fumarole and gusset, it seems like a fair swap. He shakes me warmly by the throat and leaves.
I know, I'll write a piece for MT [too right: Ed] so I hunt around for a pen and paper, settle down at the kitchen table, pen in hand, brain in neutral and suddenly realise I haven't descaled the kettle this year so it's on with coat and down to the de-scaling shop. On the way I meet a mate who tells me he's holding a pony and is just on his way to the Hare and Hounds to see a man about a dog, I decide to tag along to investigate the nature of the beast. An expedition of epic proportions ensues, from Hare 'n' Hounds to Dog 'n’ Duck, from sober as judge to pissed as newt. As my mate gets a round in I look out the window, it’s night-time, my theory is vindicated, I knew I should have stayed in.
After a few more sherbets I leave behind my comrade with my head held high and my feet held higher, I'm being carried out, I make my way home. Sometime in the early hours I come to with a heaviness in my chest and am unable to breathe, I'm having an asthma attack! Then I realise I've been lying face down on the carpet all night. I stagger to bed with my stomach on spin cycle and a drill in my head. No sooner has the aforementioned limb hit the pillow when that fucking alarm explodes.
After shaving my tongue and kicking the cat, I oh so delicately pedal to work with a Film Noir of the mights performance in my head for company.
"Good day off?", enquires the fat controller before hitting me with a Mayfair to Shad Thames, my lip quivers as I leave the office. C’est la Guerre.
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