by brightonsauce

My face wears its moan, (a) haggard hairline receding, (a) wool tide of man.  Below it the skin pouches, handbags [are] under eye-line.

‘Perfect’ I agree to the mirror, purse my lips together in a pout over ancient ivories.  My lips were once prize-winners, now thankfully they fit my face, at last, thank god.[I say]

When I was twelve years old I could hardly see my ears for lips, I am recovered from those cruel days at the Chelsea flower show,  and today pull cowboy boots to kneecaps,  slam the door, stroll in the delightful sunshine of my suburbia, roll, a prize-fighter,  just in case there are dog-owners or adolescents to manage, past on the sidewalk – as we call it, here in our [new] UK.

My mission to purchase tobacco for my wife, how dare she smoke?

‘My fags,’ I say and watch her coughing. ‘How dare you cough, don’t you think I have suffered enough?’ I say.

It is Good Friday, the boss in his majesty has given me a day away from agricultural servitude, a day for quiet contemplation, religious observance of the TV, heh.  Yes, but as I was saying, I am walking the street, negotiate push chairs and the parents, men minding their cars

Mochang guards his corner shop.  If it all goes according to plan I shall be in, away without even a full smile, but dammit, another customer blocks the register – a male talker.  I wander down to beans, breads on my right hand side, chocolate a distance away.  The man leaves, I race in for a grumble delivery:

‘Large packet golden virgin,’ I say.

‘And How are you today, mister Woolf?’ he says.

I sway, raise jellies from the floor.

‘Oh,’ he says.

‘No newspapers…’ I mutter.

‘Well, You should have got out of your bed earlier,’ he says.

And I confess, ‘I am a derelict individual, ‘ I say.

‘Of course you are sir, good day to you,’‘ he says.

That’s it, pretty much everything, still reeling after my fail-write of last week.  Confidence resides in the sock drawer, the far corner of the bedroom.  I have no socks, I have no confidence, and I say to you, as I said to my wife ‘how can any man perform on four pairs of underpants, who else in this entire planet performs on only four pairs of pants, where are my combat pants?’ I say.

I don’t know,’ she replies, ‘DON’T I DO ENOUGH WASHING!!!! MWAAAHHH,’ and she leaps in a single motion from the bed, claws my forehead…’

‘Pants,’ she cries, ‘go buy some fucking pants.’

‘I will, fuck you, I will go [buy] some pants, you just watch me, eh.’

It was a very emotional encounter, a possible visceral situation, and will make fantastic fiction, once I get, oh something.  So probably my sailing adventure story will make an appearance later on, maybe not, I shall think of some new writing:  space,  or return to cowboy writing, excellent I am in the Western genre.