My editor reminds me it’s the silly season, so please, no politics. I nearly argue that politics is the silliest thing, but think it prudent not to take him on, seeing he’s in a festive (or silly) mood.
There is the old chestnut most columnists persist with. Resolutions. They are undoubtedly very silly, simply because they’re inevitably unattainable.
Like smoking. Boozing. Gorging chocolates or red-skinned viennas. Or joining a gym, or climbing Everest. Or cycling through Africa. Or cut toenails before they pierce expensive socks given to you by Santa.
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What’s left to reach 400 words to fill this space? Oh, I know, my pills. In fact, I’m this minute, between laptop and dining room table, filling my fancy pill box with the week’s supply.
Five per day. One preventing heart failure, one keeping blood pressure down, one to assist the aorta valve to open and close properly, one for controlling cholesterol and one to drain excessive water from the lungs.
While thus occupied, my good (sic) neighbour pops in. “Good grief, so many pills. It’s a wonder you don’t have a contraceptive one. Ha-ha.”
Given the discovery of other genders, it could very well have been possible had I belonged to the trans folk. I picture myself wearing one of those pregnant dresses cut away to hide the give-away swollen belly.
No, hang on, what you’re seeing is my beer boep, so don’t make silly assumptions.
About pills. Years ago my mother-in-law, having reached my present age, had the habit of filling her pill box while visiting over weekends. Can’t she do it at home?
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I complained to my Heidi. One day she overheard my nasty diatribe and immediately retaliated with, “Pasop, your day will come.”
And it has come to pass, believe you me.
Like the other day, when queuing for my licence renewal. Each time my number was called, on three occasions, the de-watering pill had other ideas, forcing me to cut short my trip to the relevant cubicle.
When at last I made it, the assistant, who had evidently seen my predicament, smiled knowingly. “My grandfather has the same problem.”
Why am I telling you all this as there’s nothing silly about it. Quite serious, really.
But at least I’ve reached my 400th word. Bloody silly season.
