Joy of Joys

The phone went.
It was Boots in Putney. They’ve got my nicotine patches. I said I’d be there in a few days to pick them up.
I didn’t have the heart to tell them I’d started again and that I’d only be hoarding the patches for a very rainy day. They should have a no-smoking holiday destination on the NHS where people can give up in peace. London’s too hyper to give up smoking.
I cut my leg walking into the shower this morning. The step up proved too ambitious a manoeuvre and I slipped, gashing my shin on the threshold.
It hurt and refused to bleed at first. Pride, probably.
I thought it was just a graze but then it started seeping. It ran down my leg and I was reminded of the film ‘Psycho’.
Having sloped into mild hypochondria (I hate touching doors especially) after my first ever operation last year, I eyed the threshold to see how dirty it was and immediately calculated the risk of infection. I analysed the state of the threshold again and then lifted the ripped skin to reveal a pretty deep two-inch gash. I washed it with shampoo (I use it as soap) again and again, scared that someone with Aids had managed to slip in the same way, their blood cells eating into my own fresh cut, to infect, to find a new home in me. Then I got down to the business end of the shower and washed my hair.
Once out, I went to my room and looked at the gash again. It had gone right to the bone. I could see the rising nodule of shin bone stick out when I lifted the skin up; it was milky in colour.
At reception, I asked for some Savlon but they said that they couldn’t give out Savlon. It was against the law.
What in heaven’s name would the den mothers of Great Britain say? Did they still exist? Had they been warned about the rising dangers of child molestation amongst den mothers? Would the mothers of children allow them to go on adventures with the den mothers? Could the den mothers of Great Britain be trusted? Could anyone? Maybe the owners of Savlon hadn’t paid quiet money to the insects that rule world commerce. Maybe Savlon had competition and the insects wanted the word ‘Savlon’ to be wiped from our memory.
‘I bet that’s health and safety,’ I said.
‘It was, yeah,’ said the receptionist. Nothing new in her job. I bet she won’t be able to answer incoming calls soon, for fear of verbal abuse that may result in depression and lead to a landmark court ruling to defend the rights of receptionists throughout Britain.
She came back with some alcohol wipes and a plaster.
‘God, they make me sick with anger. Everything we learnt as kids, puff, up in smoke!’ I was angry enough for both of us so she let it go.
There wasn’t a bit of concern about my leg, though. Maybe I’m too old for concern. I’m no spring chicken any more. If I was a teenager, she’d have been on me like a rash. Up a bit, down a bit with all the soothing words of reassurance.
I went to sit down next to a young woman.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I asked. ‘Only blood. We’ve all got it.’
She didn’t mind until she took a peek at the gash. She probably thought I was being a woose and wanted to justify her prejudice.
‘Oh my..’ she said, stopping short. She was, after all, in the YMCA, a place of God. Miracles happen.
It had bled again, probably because I was angry, so I wiped it down.
The young woman was quickly called away by the receptionist. I heard some gasps followed by silence and then little titters before a door shut.
-Oh, you poor thing. Sorry about that.
-It was quite a cut.
-Oh, don’t worry about him. Probably off to the pub.
Teehee.
After carefully administering the plaster, I stepped out into the day. With just over four quid to my name, I felt like Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy, my chest out and my neck in, only there was no Ritzo around the corner.
I didn’t even have a Ritzo for company.
I went to the library and got my emails. My ex doesn’t want me to be a part of my children’s lives. She’s written to my solicitor that my drinking, drugging and gambling has caused me to have violent moodswings that have had adverse effects on the children. She wants nothing more to do with me and hopes that I’ll learn to stay away in future. This is war, obviously.
I went to Wandsworth to see if I can be put on housing’s waiting-list, probably the hottest ticket in south-west London.
It’s a no-no. I should be able to stand on my own two feet. I don’t need help. I’m OK.
I did the usual ‘you only give it to foreigners’ lark and left fuming.
Then I got a call from a buddy. He said he might have a squat for me. I asked how come and he told me that a friend of his really likes this million pound house in Wimbledon. It’s empty so he’s going to break in, change the locks, install me (the squatter) and then call the owner to say that, sin of deadly sins, they’re being squatted. He’s kept an eye on the house because he’s always wanted to buy it, so he’ll take care of the squatters but they’ll have to sell the house to him.
I said I was up for it, but I can’t half smell a rat. Nothing’s too good to be true, but, well, this was going some.
I went to sign on and they told me that a strike had delayed my claim and that I wouldn’t get any money on Friday so I made to call for an Emergency Crisis Loan from the payphone outside but they were too busy to answer so I caught the bus back and went to the bookies with two of the four quid left. Arsenal were playing that night and I wanted to win enough for a few pints down the pub.
I lost on Silver Sedge and Kidlat and trudged past the new Sainsbury’s Local. The six-pack of Walkers for a quid I could have had. The Rich Tea/Hob Nobs/ Digestives combo-pack for a quid that could have accompanied my tea. The dreams. The regrets.
When I got back to the Y(O.Y.), a note had been pushed under my door. I was late in paying my rent by fifty quid and now there’d be nothing to get them off my back on Friday. I’d have to sell the car.
I had a spliff.
Thank God I’d started smoking again. I couldn’t have faced that day without tobacco.