nunoncastors

I was talking to Maia the other day, enquiring what the deal is with all the rain and whatnot during April, and she pointed out that it’s not really her month, May’s more her thing which, when you think about it, makes sense.

Still, shy beauty that she is, she pointed me in the direction of Persephone on the basis that she tends to take a more active role in the whole ‘cycle of the seasons’ thing these days. It’s all a bit confusing really, considering they essentially do the same job, seems even goddesses workshare these days.

Anyway, Persephone told me to bugger off as she’s busy waking up the world and consoling her mother’s grief, can’t really argue with that so I’m off to Spain where, so I’m told, the rain falls mainly on the plain.

Good job I’ll be on the coast then.

Organ grinder not pictured.

EDIT

On reflection, just saying ‘organ grinder not pictured’ is nowhere near scathing enough, not when the ability to put together rhyming couplets while flailing like apes is all that’s required to obtain a recording contract these days.

As much as I’m aware that I sound like an old man failing to understand ‘the youth’, do people really listen to this nonsense? I mean actively, deliberately, listen to it? On purpose.

Each to their own and all that, but I worry for anyone who treats this aural mess as anything more than shits ‘n’ giggles, I really do.

I like to go for a pint with my friends now and then, just a quiet couple after work on a Friday or a few with lunch on the weekend; I’m not a big drinker any more as I no longer see the point in catatonia and mindless dribbling – it’s a sign of the times I suppose – and usually it’s lovely and somewhat convivial; we talk rubbish, discuss possible opportunities for F.U.N and generally take things easy. Sometimes however, sometimes, it’s marred by the presence of tossers. Or maybe it’s marred by my perception of the presence of tossers because I’m one myself, maybe, I don’t know, it’s all getting a bit existential, I don’t like it..

Anyway, often they’re simply obscenely drunk and irritating, occasionally they’re a weird old guy who won’t fuck off and insists on creeping you out with his slimy manner, but last night it was fucking students*.

As a rule, I’ve nothing against students provided that when you say ‘student’ you mean someone who actually studies and doesn’t just piss their loan up the wall for three years before coming away with a degree in Media Studies which, honestly, is neither use nor ornament.

Friends, former students themselves, have claimed that this smacks of jealousy because I’ve never ‘experienced’ university life and therefore can’t relate to the mindless pratting about, as though getting pissed for three years and rutting like a tumescent monkey isn’t something that can be achieved without a massive loan and a tendency to stay in bad until noon. I mean, they may have a point, or rather, would have a point if I didn’t have a degree and several well documented instances of extreme prattery.

Still, jealousy or no, I retain my intense objection to the anime-haired scene-whores who whine because mummy and daddy have only sent them 10k to last the whole year, which is unfortunate really, as they’re precisely the folk who congregated in the bar last night and delighted us with their gibbering. Not because we were stood next to them, as you might think, no, but because the shower of guffawing arseholes felt the need to bellow everything they said at full volume down the length of the pub while braying like mules.

You didn’t get up until three today and couldn’t be arsed with lectures? Really? That’s wonderful, thank you so much for sharing that insight into your listless existence, please, shout and caper some more, it is enchanting.

I think I may be more irritable than usual.

*Turn of phrase. They weren’t actually fucking, that’s what the pub toilets are for apparently. Eurgh. Imagine that. Sex in a pub toilet, that’s pure class is that.

Sometimes life throws up a bump in the road that, upon closer inspection, turns out to be the lip of a ravine into which you tumble uncontrollably and dash your head on some rocks. Some people refer to this as ‘character building’ because; bless ‘em, they just don’t know any better.

So it was on Thursday when, having asked my father how he was, he replied that he was fine provided you didn’t count the recently discovered tumour eating one of his kidneys. To which, honestly, there is no adequate response beyond saying “What?” in an incredulous tone and looking stunned, there really isn’t.

It turns out that a few months back, when my father was the victim of an irritating hernia, the doctor had noticed some blood and protein in his urine (you know, as you do) and requested further checks. Curiously, these were the sort of checks that involved MRIs, CT scans and all manner of other technological marvels that endeavour to show you what’s going on in your innards. In this case, cancer, a rugby ball sized tumour happily eating away at a kidney. The bastard.

Now my father has major surgery to look forward to, and the rest of his life sans kidney which, though neither of us may show it, is a source of genuine perturbation. I mean, I’m not one for getting tearful and overwrought, which upsets my step-mother because she is, but it’s a bit scary, more so for my father obviously, and I’m not entirely sure what to do. I mean, I’m convinced everything’ll be fine, or at least as fine as it can be, but still, what do you do in a situation like this?

Best case scenario, he’s ok, worse case, well, I’m disinclined to think about it.

“Hello”

Y’alright.

“Shitty weather isn’t it?”

Yeah, it’d be nice if it made its mind up, I can do without the whole rain-sun-rain-hail thing.”

“Tell me about it; be nice when the summer gets here though, waiting for friends?”

Uh… no.

“Oh, just doing a bit of shopping then?”

*gesturing at plate full of food while my mouth is full of sandwich*

I’m eating lunch…

“Sorry, yes, of course. Fancy a coffee?”

Um, if you were a girl, yes.

“Ah.”

Yeah.

“Sorry.”

No worries.

“This always happens.”

Tell me about it.

.
Time to lose the beard I think.