Afflicted by acute fatigue, I’ve felt a bit under the weather the last few days. Consequently, I’ve suffered from lethargy, along with a lack of vigour, likely contributing to GJ Strachan falling back asleep at 8am; not stirring again until 11am.
Overnight I was awoken briefly with a dry coughing fit, an episode repeated between 8-11 this morning. That being said, I’m not gonna panic or become neurotic I’ve contracted COVID resultant from these two brief events.
After all, it’s only two small coughing fits. I’ve no other coronavirus symptoms such as a high temperature, loss of taste/smell, or feeling moved to stand on the White House steps saluting like a tinpot dictator.
Upon a groggy arrival downstairs at 11.05am, I was greeted by my mum (in whose house I’m currently residing) with a ‘cheery’ “I thought you’d died!….. I was just about to go upstairs to bag up all your clothes for the charity shop!”
This gallows humour quip not an untypical jocular route employed by the matriarch. One raising a wry smile on my visage as I unceremoniously dropped bread into the toaster.
“You must’ve needed that sleep, Gary!” mater stated the chuffing obvious.
“Well, yeah!…… Either that or at 8am someone knocked me out with Rohypnol.” I uttered while consuming heart meds, swigged down with a ‘mansize’ gulp of tap water.
“You shouldn’t be laying in bed all day, Gary!….. Your mate Micky Troutman didn’t become a millionaire by laying in bed all day.” Maggie ventured.
“Micky Troutman has got a few bob, but isn’t a millionaire, mum….. And he DID lie in bed all day as he worked nightshifts for 30 years.” I pointed out.
“You know what I mean!” mum growled at my cynical retort.
“No, I’ve no idea what you mean!….. Both the key elements of your statement are incorrect!” I patronisingly highlighted to the ditzy old bird..
“You wouldn’t be saying that if I was right!” came the correct, but mystifying, suggestion from Maggie.
“I know!….. But you’re not correct, therefore my evaluation of the validity of your reverential comment about Micky Troutman remains true.” I further patronised.
“It must be marvellous to be bloody right all the time, you clever little s***e!” came mater’s vitriolic response. The old lady reverting to a Trumpesque defensive mode aimed at distracting from the shortcomings of her arguments
“I’ve never claimed to be right all the time, mum…… For instance, I was incorrect in 2005 at predicting humanity wouldn’t be able fly from their own volition by 2020.” yours truly conceded.
“Men can’t fly of their own accord, you fool!” Maggie pointed out, falling for my cleverly baited trap.
“Can they not?….. It appears you were spot on then, mum…. I am right all the time!!!” I mischievously teased, to the old ladies chagrin.
“Anyway, you should be making a lot more effort to seek employment to cover lost earnings when your role’s made redundant in six weeks.” Mrs S senior nagged.
“I’ve been putting feelers out for roles in the creative field, mum…… I’d back myself in a writing role, maybe even monetising caricature pencil drawings with quotes of inspiration.” I pointed out to the woman whose house remains my fixed abode.
“You don’t wanna be wasting you time with delusional pipe dreams like that, Gary!….. Get a proper job!” Maggie derided.
“Like what?!” I asked.
“A used car showroom owner!” came a sheepish maternal response.
“I don’t know anything about cars, mum!” GJ Strachan pointed out, shooting down the idiotic suggestion.
“You could learn, Gary…… Don’t be so obstructive to all my suggestions….. That Arthur Daley used to make a fortune from selling cars.” Maggie highlighted.
“He utilised the car salesroom as a front to keep clandestine all his other illegal dealings…… Anyhow, why am I arguing about this?…… It was a fictional show and I know chuff all about cars!…… It’s not happening, mum!” yours truly barked.
“Do what you want!…. It’s your life, Gary…… I just don’t want you wasting your time thinking you’ll get a job as a writer or drawing a sketch of Kenneth Williams with 8ft nostrils.” Mater observed.
“At least I can write….. It’s less a waste of my time than buying a used car salesroom; a role I neither have the knowledge or enthusiasm to undertake.” I attempted to point out to the unconverted.
“I’ve given birth to a deluded dreamer!” Maggie muttered. She then wandered upstairs to vacuum with my response of “A pipe dream is better than no dream, mum!!” ringing in her ears.