A Pointless Adventure
December 13th 2006 09:55
I've already said that I was pretty ill last week. But that statement alone doesn't say a thing of the monumental struggles I went through just to buy a loaf of bread. While I wouldn't say the experience was fun, it did turn a mundane, everyday task into something quite extraordinary.
I woke up with flu up to the eyeballs on Monday morning. By Wednesday the most obvious of the symptoms had subsided but I was left with a crippling lethargy that made every movement a chore. And I live in a house with a lot of stairs. Can you comprehend it? Staring the limits of your physical endurance in the face every time you want a glass of apple juice? The mind boggles. Every tiny exertion was hampered by the most terrible, bone-deep weariness, like trying to do gymnastics on a planet with extremely high gravity.
While I did not feel like going anywhere at all, I unfortunately needed a doctor's certificate, as I had missed several days of work with no source more reliable than my own sworn testimony that I was really sick. By a phenomenal stroke of providence, the local doctor lives 5 houses from my own place of residence. 5 houses downhill, no less. That helped ease my mind into accepting the inevitability of leaving the homestead. In fact, I was so overcome with jubilation – and hunger – that I decided to do something really ambitious.
The cupboards were totally bare, and the more able-bodied breadwinners were all out of the house... winning bread, presumably. I had had nothing to eat for breakfast and I was alarmingly hungry. There is a corner store, a milk-bar/basic grocery type of operation, which is directly opposite the doctor's. It had been closed for many months due to its awning suddenly collapsing onto the street, which caused concern for obvious reasons. But the renovations finished, by some stroke of luck, several days before I got sick, and it re-opened at a very convenient time for me. I urgently needed to eat, so I armed myself with some petty cash and a scribbled Post-It shopping list and set out to kill two birds with one stone, despite feeling like one bird could kill ME with no stones at all – perhaps just a good-sized twig clasped in its beak.
The appointment at the doctor was mercifully brief and rewarding. I got my professional declaration of illness and was politely moved along by the sympathetic and charming Doctor Lynne. But something was wrong. The sheer energy required to put on some pants and walk the length of five houses left me feeling dizzy and disoriented. I didn't even feel hungry anymore, just like a disembodied set of eyeballs floating around in an unpleasant haze. My body was a long, thing, useless appendage I had to drag round like an anchor, every moment threatening to tip over and spill me to the pavement. How embarrassing.
It is a testament to my discombobulated state of mind that I still felt I was capable of picking up a few basic items from the store across the road. I had them memorized the list. Milk. Bread. Eggs. Muesli. But when I got inside the store, things went wrong. All these pristine, attractively packaged products, like little soldiers on parade. Just standing there waiting to be purchased. I recalled that we needed light bulbs and liquid soap and cotton swabs and butter and apple juice and probably a newspaper for good measure.
I lurched from the shelves to the counter half a dozen times, conveying my purchases to the clerk, who did not look put out of countenance by my behaviour. By this time, however, I did not merely feel disembodied. I was having an existential crisis. Cogito ergo sum, I thought, I think, therefore I am...but that was the only certainty I felt I could count on. The whole purpose of my expedition suddenly seemed ridiculous, a perilous, life-threatening journey for a few petty everyday items. I wasn't even hungry. I suddenly felt like giggling, but instead I gripped the counter and dragged my wallet from my shorts, twisting the hip pocket around over my crotch as I did so.
The clerk was an Asian woman with an accent so thick that I could barely understand her. She told me the total and then added... “...and a ten percent discount”. It took me several seconds to register what she had said, but my suspicions were immediately aroused. “Why do I get a discount?” I demanded. She twittered her explanation, in what might have been English. Her native tongue was one of those guttural South-Eastern dialects that sound like someone trying to talk after their their throat has been cut. I had no comprehension of what she was trying to say to me, fragments of words I could understand seemingly unrelated by any logical discourse. “Righto,” I croaked.
This adventure was getting very bizarre very quickly. I decided it was time to make a graceful exit, back to my bed, warm horizontal safety. I picked up my bags, but my newspaper fell to the floor. One hand was still fumbling with my change, stuffing it clumsily into a pocket as I gazed six feet and two inches down to the newspaper lying prone on the tiles. I closed my eyes momentarily, fighting off a wave of vertigo. I leaned carefully to the floor, arm outstretched. The plastic bag holding my bread and muesli fell from my reaching fingers onto the floor. I moaned thickly, a dumb bovine sound of abject, impotent desperation.
Again I was struck by a sense of fighting an incredible force of gravity. What is wrong with this chittering woman? I wondered, dazed, angry. Why isn't she helping? Doesn't she notice the bizarre gravity in here? How does she stand it? She was jabbering at me again in what sounded like neighbourly good fun. My humour was exhausted. I swept my acquisitions into my arms in a large, ungraceful bunch, like a pro wrestler giving a bear hug, and put all my reserves of strength into my jelly-weak thigh muscles, forcing myself to stand upright again and stumble from the store.
I staggered home like the world's most stereotypical whiskey drunk, lurching like a landlubber at sea. Wrestling out the keys to the front door was an epic battle. The door swung freely behind me in a breeze which suddenly felt sub-arctic. I dumped the groceries which had almost killed me onto the nearest available surface and collapsed on a couch, from which I did not move for a long time.
By telling my story I only wanted to make you understand the seriousness of my plight, and make clear my valor under trying circumstances. And also to provide some explanation as to why there were no updates during my illness. The important thing is that I survived, and you're still reading this. Sunrise, sunset.
I woke up with flu up to the eyeballs on Monday morning. By Wednesday the most obvious of the symptoms had subsided but I was left with a crippling lethargy that made every movement a chore. And I live in a house with a lot of stairs. Can you comprehend it? Staring the limits of your physical endurance in the face every time you want a glass of apple juice? The mind boggles. Every tiny exertion was hampered by the most terrible, bone-deep weariness, like trying to do gymnastics on a planet with extremely high gravity.
While I did not feel like going anywhere at all, I unfortunately needed a doctor's certificate, as I had missed several days of work with no source more reliable than my own sworn testimony that I was really sick. By a phenomenal stroke of providence, the local doctor lives 5 houses from my own place of residence. 5 houses downhill, no less. That helped ease my mind into accepting the inevitability of leaving the homestead. In fact, I was so overcome with jubilation – and hunger – that I decided to do something really ambitious.
The cupboards were totally bare, and the more able-bodied breadwinners were all out of the house... winning bread, presumably. I had had nothing to eat for breakfast and I was alarmingly hungry. There is a corner store, a milk-bar/basic grocery type of operation, which is directly opposite the doctor's. It had been closed for many months due to its awning suddenly collapsing onto the street, which caused concern for obvious reasons. But the renovations finished, by some stroke of luck, several days before I got sick, and it re-opened at a very convenient time for me. I urgently needed to eat, so I armed myself with some petty cash and a scribbled Post-It shopping list and set out to kill two birds with one stone, despite feeling like one bird could kill ME with no stones at all – perhaps just a good-sized twig clasped in its beak.
The appointment at the doctor was mercifully brief and rewarding. I got my professional declaration of illness and was politely moved along by the sympathetic and charming Doctor Lynne. But something was wrong. The sheer energy required to put on some pants and walk the length of five houses left me feeling dizzy and disoriented. I didn't even feel hungry anymore, just like a disembodied set of eyeballs floating around in an unpleasant haze. My body was a long, thing, useless appendage I had to drag round like an anchor, every moment threatening to tip over and spill me to the pavement. How embarrassing.
It is a testament to my discombobulated state of mind that I still felt I was capable of picking up a few basic items from the store across the road. I had them memorized the list. Milk. Bread. Eggs. Muesli. But when I got inside the store, things went wrong. All these pristine, attractively packaged products, like little soldiers on parade. Just standing there waiting to be purchased. I recalled that we needed light bulbs and liquid soap and cotton swabs and butter and apple juice and probably a newspaper for good measure.
I lurched from the shelves to the counter half a dozen times, conveying my purchases to the clerk, who did not look put out of countenance by my behaviour. By this time, however, I did not merely feel disembodied. I was having an existential crisis. Cogito ergo sum, I thought, I think, therefore I am...but that was the only certainty I felt I could count on. The whole purpose of my expedition suddenly seemed ridiculous, a perilous, life-threatening journey for a few petty everyday items. I wasn't even hungry. I suddenly felt like giggling, but instead I gripped the counter and dragged my wallet from my shorts, twisting the hip pocket around over my crotch as I did so.
The clerk was an Asian woman with an accent so thick that I could barely understand her. She told me the total and then added... “...and a ten percent discount”. It took me several seconds to register what she had said, but my suspicions were immediately aroused. “Why do I get a discount?” I demanded. She twittered her explanation, in what might have been English. Her native tongue was one of those guttural South-Eastern dialects that sound like someone trying to talk after their their throat has been cut. I had no comprehension of what she was trying to say to me, fragments of words I could understand seemingly unrelated by any logical discourse. “Righto,” I croaked.
This adventure was getting very bizarre very quickly. I decided it was time to make a graceful exit, back to my bed, warm horizontal safety. I picked up my bags, but my newspaper fell to the floor. One hand was still fumbling with my change, stuffing it clumsily into a pocket as I gazed six feet and two inches down to the newspaper lying prone on the tiles. I closed my eyes momentarily, fighting off a wave of vertigo. I leaned carefully to the floor, arm outstretched. The plastic bag holding my bread and muesli fell from my reaching fingers onto the floor. I moaned thickly, a dumb bovine sound of abject, impotent desperation.
Again I was struck by a sense of fighting an incredible force of gravity. What is wrong with this chittering woman? I wondered, dazed, angry. Why isn't she helping? Doesn't she notice the bizarre gravity in here? How does she stand it? She was jabbering at me again in what sounded like neighbourly good fun. My humour was exhausted. I swept my acquisitions into my arms in a large, ungraceful bunch, like a pro wrestler giving a bear hug, and put all my reserves of strength into my jelly-weak thigh muscles, forcing myself to stand upright again and stumble from the store.
I staggered home like the world's most stereotypical whiskey drunk, lurching like a landlubber at sea. Wrestling out the keys to the front door was an epic battle. The door swung freely behind me in a breeze which suddenly felt sub-arctic. I dumped the groceries which had almost killed me onto the nearest available surface and collapsed on a couch, from which I did not move for a long time.
By telling my story I only wanted to make you understand the seriousness of my plight, and make clear my valor under trying circumstances. And also to provide some explanation as to why there were no updates during my illness. The important thing is that I survived, and you're still reading this. Sunrise, sunset.
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