Daily Dose

Edit up at leisure, tweak, and find a beginning, middle and end before 3 o’clock.

 

David lived in a shack on the beach.  Under the beams of his bedroom the bed spread to every corner of that bedroom, and one hundred yards from the skylight of his bedroom the English Channel rushed to shore like the oldest battleship, like the oldest man, blood a porridge pumping his pump, only just.

How many more years would his own pump pump the porridge? thought David.  Till he was about sixty-seven, he thought.  I mean, Charlie, the old boy at work was 67 years old, practically talked about nothing else but his pump.   But then that’s old people the world over, thought David.  At least his porridge [David’s own porridge] was runny; he was demonstrably virile, a ready brek kid and forty-six.  A catch if oneself were a fifty-six year old divorcee, no pets and an inheritance.  If only, thought David, and dreamed about the petrol station cashier.

She was pretty old, but still she called him darling, and passed the cigarettes across the counter.  She sniggered as David swiped his bank card over the bargain chocolates.

‘I’ll think you’ll find the machine is just there, honey, under your wrist,’ said the woman.

David swallowed hard, left the petrol station.  This was possibly the most profound encounter of his year.  He imagined the relationship with the petrol station cashier.  How he might purchase five pounds of petrol every other day, and then the next day absently collect forecourt daffodils, AND the next day their adventure began together at the forecourt’s neighbour, at Mcdonalds.

‘Two big macs please, and two cups of tea.  No I don’t want a meal, for god’s sake you people are revolting,’ he said through the intercom.

‘I love you,’ said the fifty-six year old cashier.

‘My burger has no flavour,’ he replied, removed the gherkin, and removed his seat belt.  There would be no return from misadventure, and his wife divorced him.  David lives with the old woman above the petrol station.  Once he lived at the beach.

‘Do you remember our first burger together?’ she said.

David sobbed upon the nylon sheets, sobbed at the recollection of the gourmet burgers purchased by his long departed wife, burgers from Marks & Spencer, like a paradise burger. And now she lived in Po, skied daily, surfed regularly, drank the best wines hourly.

Anyway, David had not eloped with the old woman.  He remained in his bedroom above the shit beach.  He stood, looked.  Dog walkers dogged in their anoraks, threw squeaky balls high to the air, skipped with Rover.  But there, along the gardens along from his own shack, there in the garden, folded at the waist a huge, comely bottom swayed and held a hoe somehow.

David groaned with pleasure. Then the gardener stood and waved. It was Derek the neighbour.  David, as you know, would never visit Derek’s garden, David was a heterosexist.

His lust wander was interrupted

‘Cup of tea, sweatheart?’ called his wife from the downstairs area.

‘I’m coming lover, ‘ replied David, sincerely and tied his dressing gown tight around his sex belly, drifted over stairs.  He established a new rhythm of steps around the kitchen

‘We’re running short of milk,’ he reprimanded, and gathered two cups.

What pleasure, he thought, to spend the day at home with my wife, and in my gown.  She works so hard on-line at the Boobcafe.

David considered his own short career at the Boobcafe.  He squeezed, and could not lactate for nobody.

Instead David diversified, and today prepared lazily for a week of nights at the Poultry Facility.  Indeed, since becoming an industry insider he developed a great respect for chickens the world over, on the soil and on the bun he said to management.

‘Oh my god,’ he continued, and bit his face, ‘another night with the lorry drivers, another night supervising the chaps tossing pullets aboard the lorry.

If only he were tossed upon a lorry, he could travel to Norfolk, to Somerset, the opportunities were…limited.