Today sees the continuation of yours truly’s new daily trend of writing blogs prior to 6am. This novel practice a consequence of habitual insomnia; an affliction which ordinarily kicks in at around 4am every morning.
The catalyst to this new reveille routine an irksome brew of one, two, or all, of the following;- Overheating due to summer temperatures, dehydration and the capriciousness of a middle-aged man’s bladder.
Incidentally, it’s my bladder I’m referring to above. Not that of a middle-aged neighbour whose urinary sac’s weakness results in the owner waking me with raucous shouts of “Mavis, I’m off for a p***!” at 4am in the morning….. A cry directed at his hard of hearing wife, which I hear through bedroom windows opened to counter stifling prevailing climes.
That being said, as I’ve not got a hard of hearing neighbour called Mavis, whose husband has a dicky bladder (that I know of, anyway), it’s highly unlikely the above scenario will play out in this small corner of West Yorkshire.
And to be honest, if that scene did form part of my early morning plot line I could hardly blame the guy’s bladder. After all, it’d be the guys brain and mouth causing the anti-social behaviour, not his urine storage unit.
That bodily parts only crime would be that of a high maintenance (but silent) penchant for requiring emptying prior to what many deem a reasonable hour…… If waking you for a pee can be classed as a crime; which, if it were a valid accusation, would lead to mine having a rap sheet a mile long!
Actually, this morning’s early rise was the result of dehydration, not a requirement to use the bathroom. My dry mouth consequential of partaking in a few drinks during yesterday lunchtime’s catchup with a friend at the Friends of Ham bar, in Leeds.
My first visit to a bar in over eighteen months, mostly due to COVID edicts, was a pleasant distraction involving good food and great company. Scenes played out in one of our great metropolis’ most curiously named eateries.
Look, I enjoy ham as much as anyone – Well, with the exception of the billions globally who won’t touch it for religious, ethical or taste reasons. However, could I describe myself as its friend, I pondered while staring longingly at the inviting platter of meats and cheeses in front of me.
For one thing, I don’t eat my friends. For that scenario to play out would have to see me exist in a pretty horrific post-apocalyptic zeitgeist where human flesh was the difference between survival and starving to death.
No, I concluded – The friend I met for lunch can be classed as a friend, but not the splendid Italian hams which I feasted upon during yesterday’s rendezvous.
While my aforementioned buddy ventured to the Friends of Ham toilets, yours truly mulled whether I could perhaps class ham as an acquaintance…… As with friends, I don’t eat my acquaintances (well the human one’s anyhow). However, the casual inference of the word acquaintance could mean technically that label is valid description of my relationship with the pig meat. Irrespective of its temporary nature.
After all, during the two/three hour episode, GJ Strachan was definitely acquainted with the ham lunch, both visually and consumption wise. Leading me to conclude that, although friendship was off the agenda, being its acquaintance wasn’t……. An observation leading to notions that perhaps the bar should be renamed Acquaintances of Ham.