Bath Night and other Problems
I need help...what? no not that sort of help, I'm a married man I'll have you know...no honestly I need help to retrieve my, possibly, irretrievable plot. As you all know I went back to work somewhat earlier than expected and gradually it is driving me completely round the bend...oh alright, further round the bend than I already am.
Today was the first day of work since my operation that has not been viewed through the lens of any form of barbiturate, opiate or any other form of 'ate' and I have firmly decided I don't like it. Work is not fun, it involves vast amounts of people shouting at me continually to do things that
A. I can't do
B. I don't want to do
C. It's, possibly, fucking impossible to do
Today was, maybe, one of the most stressful days of my working life...apart from the day when I accidentally deleted the whole of a top law firms intranet, that was quite stressful...actually I'm lying, today wasn't that stressful but it was beyond complicated and I think my brain may be trying to hibernate. This is made all the more complicated by the fact I can't actually write anything about work at all so you have no idea what I'm talking about. So I'm going to stop and tell you the glad tidings of great joy about the bath.
Oh yes, this evening I had a bath, a bona fide bath. The undercarriage is now officially clean enough to eat your dinner off...sorry, sorry, that's an image you won't able to banish for at least a week....but this is genuinely exciting news, I have clambered upstairs and dunked the majority of my naked torso into actual hot water.
It's an interesting process, first you have to get up the stairs, and let me tell you, when you can't put one foot on the ground and the other leg is distinctly under par in the leaping around stakes this is not an easy accomplishment. So the way to accomplish this feat is on ones arse, just drag yourself up the stairs one at a time and then into the bathroom.
I was determined to have a haircut as the old bonce was getting distinctly fluffy. I borrowed Henry's clippers...yes you heard right, the dogs clippers, well they're newer than mine and he'll never know...and set about removing the unwanted hair. I don't know whether any of you ever cut your own hair but I have a particular phobia of getting hair into any of my clothes as it makes me unbelievably itchy, so to avoid this, hair cutting should be done naked.
I also really need to use a mirror and my foot hurts like fuck if it's left dangling for any length of time, so standing in front of the mirror over the sink didn't look like it was going to work. So having removed all clothing and covered the plaster with a waterproof cover...keep up, it would be even worse if the hair went inside the plaster and I would need it later for the actual bathing...I sat on the floor and tried the hair cutting over a waste bin. This was not working I couldn't see a thing. Right I need to stand in front of the mirror, but I can't 'cos of aforesaid painful foot dangleyness, I can't even sit down on a chair 'cos I'm too low..bugger, bollocks and damnation. Eventually I worked it out, stand on one leg in front of the basin so I can see and prop other damaged foot on cistern of the toilet so dangleyness does not occur.
Unfortunately for you in this position other forms of dangleyness do occur, I invite you to imagine the scene of a naked, portly middle-aged man wearing nothing but a blue plaster and a smile standing with one leg propped on a toilet cistern cutting his hair...is it there, yes...now that's a picture that you will really want to erase and it ain't going to go :-) Anyhow, I digress, I cut my hair, hoping that the posture would not affect my future sex life and hoping against hope that I didn't give myself a hernia.
Finally I'm ready for the bath, this as usual is a bit of an anti-climax as I thought it was going to be really difficult but actually you just sit on the side and slide in backwards. You have no idea of the ecstasy of a hot bath after three weeks of gently marinading in your own urine. It was amazing, I'm fairly sure I may have cried a couple of tears of joy.
Anyhow that's been my day.
Enjoy
Charlie ... I've given up on the signature it does horrible things to facebook.
Today was the first day of work since my operation that has not been viewed through the lens of any form of barbiturate, opiate or any other form of 'ate' and I have firmly decided I don't like it. Work is not fun, it involves vast amounts of people shouting at me continually to do things that
A. I can't do
B. I don't want to do
C. It's, possibly, fucking impossible to do
Today was, maybe, one of the most stressful days of my working life...apart from the day when I accidentally deleted the whole of a top law firms intranet, that was quite stressful...actually I'm lying, today wasn't that stressful but it was beyond complicated and I think my brain may be trying to hibernate. This is made all the more complicated by the fact I can't actually write anything about work at all so you have no idea what I'm talking about. So I'm going to stop and tell you the glad tidings of great joy about the bath.
Oh yes, this evening I had a bath, a bona fide bath. The undercarriage is now officially clean enough to eat your dinner off...sorry, sorry, that's an image you won't able to banish for at least a week....but this is genuinely exciting news, I have clambered upstairs and dunked the majority of my naked torso into actual hot water.
It's an interesting process, first you have to get up the stairs, and let me tell you, when you can't put one foot on the ground and the other leg is distinctly under par in the leaping around stakes this is not an easy accomplishment. So the way to accomplish this feat is on ones arse, just drag yourself up the stairs one at a time and then into the bathroom.
I was determined to have a haircut as the old bonce was getting distinctly fluffy. I borrowed Henry's clippers...yes you heard right, the dogs clippers, well they're newer than mine and he'll never know...and set about removing the unwanted hair. I don't know whether any of you ever cut your own hair but I have a particular phobia of getting hair into any of my clothes as it makes me unbelievably itchy, so to avoid this, hair cutting should be done naked.
I also really need to use a mirror and my foot hurts like fuck if it's left dangling for any length of time, so standing in front of the mirror over the sink didn't look like it was going to work. So having removed all clothing and covered the plaster with a waterproof cover...keep up, it would be even worse if the hair went inside the plaster and I would need it later for the actual bathing...I sat on the floor and tried the hair cutting over a waste bin. This was not working I couldn't see a thing. Right I need to stand in front of the mirror, but I can't 'cos of aforesaid painful foot dangleyness, I can't even sit down on a chair 'cos I'm too low..bugger, bollocks and damnation. Eventually I worked it out, stand on one leg in front of the basin so I can see and prop other damaged foot on cistern of the toilet so dangleyness does not occur.
Unfortunately for you in this position other forms of dangleyness do occur, I invite you to imagine the scene of a naked, portly middle-aged man wearing nothing but a blue plaster and a smile standing with one leg propped on a toilet cistern cutting his hair...is it there, yes...now that's a picture that you will really want to erase and it ain't going to go :-) Anyhow, I digress, I cut my hair, hoping that the posture would not affect my future sex life and hoping against hope that I didn't give myself a hernia.
Finally I'm ready for the bath, this as usual is a bit of an anti-climax as I thought it was going to be really difficult but actually you just sit on the side and slide in backwards. You have no idea of the ecstasy of a hot bath after three weeks of gently marinading in your own urine. It was amazing, I'm fairly sure I may have cried a couple of tears of joy.
Anyhow that's been my day.
Enjoy
Charlie ... I've given up on the signature it does horrible things to facebook.
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