It’s my birthday today. Party time, I guess, were it not that I did most of that last week already, lumping together an overdue housewarming and a heralding of 31 years on planet Earth. It’s Friday night, and I was gonna take’r easy. It’s been a long week. I was tired. “Just a wee drink,” I told my friend over sms, “just a wee one.” My eyelids are weighed down by stout Scottish maidens, clinging to the lashes with intense peasant vigor, invisible to the naked eye, but naked nonetheless.
“Have you been sleeping enough?” my friend asks shy of a minute after I make my appearance. Not quite. It’s not what you think though. Not quite. I wish. Just a restless soul, I guess. It’s been a long week. We down a couple of beers. And then some, standing at the bar and all is fine and dandy. Just don’t make me sit down, because all hell will freeze, and on the glistening slope of my fatigue I will slide down, and simmer to a frosty coma.
“I’m good,” I tell myself in silent defense of the hammock-sized bags under my eyes. We down a couple more, and yesterday becomes today. Unannounced, sneaky git. This bastard at the bar charges eight Euros for a gin-tonic. I said gin-tonic, not gin-oil. Jeezes, did I miss a meeting? Asshole. Last time I ever go the Archeduc, I can tell you that. Until the next time. Duh! Before I know it –actually, quite some time after losing the ability to know anything beyond the tip of my shoes- it’s four, and I’m in a Clio headed home, conveyed by a beautiful Moroccan gynaecologist and her even lovelier sister.
Conveyed in the automotive sense. What the hell were you thinking? Never on the first date. Let alone, before the first date. Then again, it was my birthday, so in keeping with the prerogatives of…. Oh, shut up, already. There is still some chivalry left in this world. The night is up, and I don’t fall asleep as much as get squashed underneath the twin-towering boots of Hypnos himself, making a rare unannounced visit from beyond the confines of time-space and the wreckage inflicted by the age of steam and reason. His careless manner however is no match to electronic alarm clocks. He limps back to the Athens of yore in the squinting face of my 24 year-old, indestructible Sanyo, the likes of which single-handedly enabled the world of enforceable office hours. This thing will be happily buzzing long after the last cockroach is licked to death by the flames of the good Helios going supernova.
It’s 8.30 and I’m due to speak about life in Palestine at some Flemish government function. God knows where. Seriously. I figured one of the myriad invitations was sure to hold the address. I’ll look it up in the morning, I thought. Like I said. It’s been a hard week, and things of the weekend are best left until the weekend. But! Address schmaddress. Nothing. Nada. What were they thinking? Why, I ask, do they call it space-time? Because time alone rarely makes for successful appointments. That’s why. Lay off the pills! Of course I could have checked earlier, giving myself ample time to call and inquire, but alas. The week was, how shall I put this, busy. Very busy.
So, without the help of obsolescent deities I gave way, once more, to blissful slumber, way beyond the crux of noon. The rest of the day was spent among other things attempting to exchange a voucher at the local Apple store. And by “local” I mean “Why not get me a voucher for the store just around the corner from where I live, as opposed to the one that’s practically in another time zone. Jesus, I walked over there on Wednesday evening only to find it closed.
Today, they were horribly lacking in the one device I had picked during an hour’s peruse of the website, and no, sir, unfortunately we cannot order it. You have to buy it from the website. What the hell am I supposed to do with a voucher then? Insert in the slot-loading superdrive? Lay off the pills people. Life’s too short, and you’re missing out on a great deal of beauty, not to mention happy customers, when you’re zoned out in lala land.” I finished reading ‘The Pendragon Legend’ today. –spoiler warning- Ms. Roscoe is dead, and Cynthia will marry some twat captain of the navy. So much for a happy ending. As for me, I smile as my ears pick up the wail of the somnambulance, tires shrieking toward me. It’s been a long week.