Do you know who I am?

I'm in France, amazingly I got to France without a collapse in the weather systems of Europe, without a collapse in the social fabric of the French Air Traffic Control system and without a collapse of the undercarriage of my plane (despite the best efforts of the pilot). In fact my only cardio-perilous moments came on the journey from the airport, where we were attacked by Peugot 207's hell-bent on pushing the boundaries of the French right-of-way system, and later, when my youngest niece (Mooshi) would run towards me with hands raised, a sure sign of impending genital impact, thwarted by a timely mince.

Today however, was different. After lunch we headed to the Promenade for a stroll, bike and in-line skate, some more successful than others. On the way back, we turn where the prom narrows, and Mooshi's somewhat erratic style of cycling actively threatens the well-being of the over sixties, and meander through the fitness zones. Some of you may remember how my psychological manhood was threatened by an inflatable dolphin - and Tessa. Consequently, certain aspects of the fitness zone, chiefly those aspects that you could hang from, presented a significant challenge as to who could show off the most in front of the children. At one point I managed a somersault around the bar, finishing off with the magnificent trick of producing my phone from my sleeve, where it had ended up from my shirt pocket. At this point I must have lost my presence of mind as I failed to consider what else was in that pocket. Later, my coat came off and on with regular frequency as the fitness park expanded. As we approached the car, a thought, a cloud on the horizon, no bigger than a man's hand, crawled dully into my brain, "Had I taken my passport out of my shirt pocket, or had I, in fact lost it."
I mentioned this to Steve, plumping for, "I had taken it out of my shirt pocket."

We returned to the house, "No, I had, in fact, lost it."
Conscious of two small children, I attempted to keep my swearing sotto voce,or, at least to put my head in the wardrobe, ostensibly searching for my errant document, while actually running roughshod through my Tourettian dictionary.
Steve, switched to Action Mode,
"Have you got a photocopy?"
"No %I^$ (*&%%$ )*&^& I don't."
"Well have you got a scan you can pull out from somewhere?"
"No %I^$ (*&%%$ )*&^& I don't."
"Well let this be a lesson to you, I always have at least three photocopies, one of which I keep in a safe-deposit box in Zurich, so that if I ever hang from a pull-up bar and lose it, I can always give Gunther a buzz and he'll fax me a copy straightaway."
"Aha?"

Tessa dispatched herself on bicycle to retrace the route, there, right there, just under that tree, yes that tree, was a British Passport, fortunately it was mine. It has just occurred to me what happened; whilst upside-down my phone had decamped from my pocket, and taken the path of least resistance down my sleeve, my passport had attempted to do the same, but lacking the weight of a battery had only got so far. As the next round of "Who's more limber?" took place, and because it was becoming serious, I took off my jacket, freeing my errant proof-of-existence, so that it could tombe (as we say in France) to the ground.

The rest of the evening was spent eating, playing charades and being humbled by lithe and winsome Tessa, of whom I will hear (nor be allowed to voice) no criticism.

I have seen the light - one hundred and thirty one times.

Well it's been an interesting couple of weeks, I'm still coughing, consequently my morning musings sometimes drift to the more - esoteric, possibly due to the dextrometorphan burden that my body, and hence mind, is carrying. I walk past a Leylandii hedge that last year was full of starlings at the time I go past, and has become the Singing Ringing Tree. For those of you of a tender age, this was an East German fairy story, featuring a spoilt (naturally) Princess, her suitor (turned by an evil dwarf into a, albeit extremely unconvincing, bear) a dwarf (evil, this was in the days before political-correctness), and a singing, and ringing, tree. Sadly, this year there are no starlings, or it's not dark enough yet, so my thoughts turn to a discussion with my cousin Julian, about dating sites for specific groups, we've already got a name for one for the catering trade - "Hobnobs", and I decided that we should have one for the building trade -"Screwfix".
I also wonder whether it is acceptable, even given the one's spouse's approval, to say in the Groom's speech that, " As you all know I have long been interested in Green policy, and now I'm happy to report that I have a Bag for Life."

Anyway.
I had spent the weekend at Liz and Mike's, Liz and I had gone for a sub-zero stroll down the canal, so cold that at one point a pigeon dropped from a tree and curled up his toes as we walked past. We returned to the flat (more floor area than my house), and, as I sat with my cup of coffee I noticed a meteorite streak past when I turned my head to the right, I took off my glasses and tried again, another flash. "Hmmm", I thought, "Strange".

Others arrived, and after supper, we started to build gingerbread houses, using Mike's somewhat fraught ("This recipe, I've never worked with a dough so brittle") gingerbread slabs, three kilograms of icing, and the entire sweets counter of Tesco. I would have had photo's but I managed to delete the entire camera with a push of a misread button- darn!
The following morning, and my flashes had given way to strings floating about, I decided that one of my coughing spells may have broken a blood vessel, I would give it a couple of days to see if it dissipated and, if not, then go to A&E at Moorfields (the UK's premier eye hospital - still in debt).

On Tuesday I went. What decided me? I'd like to say that staring into the clear sky of morning I had an epiphany, actually I saw several hundred semi-transparent flying saucers, which my keen scientific intellect told me were red corpuscles. My keen scientific intellect told me to make sure, I used my finger and closed my right eye (yes, I’m winkingly-challenged). Flying saucers – none, remove digit, flying-saucers and some bands of cobweb.

Moorfields’ triage is brilliant, you’re grabbed by a nurse within five minutes, she tests your eyesight, and takes you to another waiting room, ten minutes later another nurse preps you for examination with drops, has a quick squint in your eye, tests intra-ocular pressure (they use a force meter which is placed against the eyeball; a small hint of what is to come) then returns you to the pool. Up to two hours later you are seen by the ophthalmologist, in my case a ten year old Chinese boy. The prodigy shines a series of ever-brighter lights into my eye, then reaches for something below my eyeline,

“This may be a bit uncomfortable” He says. Five seconds later he says,

“Put your forehead back in the strap please, you’re doing very well!”

Some more gouging followed by,

“The good news is you don’t have a detachment......”

I blink through my tears, emotion or assault – I dunno.

“....the bad news is that you have a retinal tear.....”

“!?!!!” The last one is an exclamation mark – the others represent missing letters.

“We can do laser surgery today, without it you have a one in three chance of a detachment, with, a one in twenty.”

I acquiesce, and am given a pink folder and told to find the fourth floor, as I approach the third floor in the only lift I can find, I manage to read the notice that tells me that this is not the lift for the fourth floor, and that I need to go back to the ground floor and follow the blue line. The ground floor sports beige lino, I eventually find the blue line by both enquiry, and following the orange line. I am deposited on the fourth floor right in front of the reception for not-my-clinic, where the nice lady tells me to go round the corner and go to- Ummm, oh – the second or third door on the right. I surprise a nurse and hand over my folder.

Four hours later my book has been finished for two hours , this is an eye hospital, there is no reading matter apart from a discarded “City AM” – a compilation of the fiscally arcane – and a folder containing a large-print leaflet about why floaters are nothing to worry about, and please go home and stop bothering us – which seems a little out of place as you sent me here in the first place.

The waiting room thins, people emerge from rooms with arrows drawn on their foreheads pointing to one of their eyes, an aide-memoire to the surgeon, just in case he can’t spot the problem and decides to go for broke, presumably.

“Mr., Nicholas Hayes?”

Just as I am about to scream with boredom, along comes Dr Keene to fill me with terror instead.

The usual rigmarole with drops.

“I’m afraid this is going to be uncomfortable.”

“!?!!!, umm, as in Doctorspeak uncomfortable?”

“Yes, I shall have to use this”, a tiny pizza paddle, “to move your eye.”

“!?!!!, !?!!!, !?!!!”

“Well the local should be working now, so sign this consent and we’ll begin.”

I am tipped backwards, and Dr Keene straps what looks like some sort of night-vision device to his forehead, the lights are turned out.

“I’m going to laser you now.”

A small, bright green, atomic device goes off in my right eye, there is a transient warmth that drifts (like swimming through the same patch of sea that someone has recently emptied their bladder into), and then a gaping crater in my vision as all my photochemicals have been bleached.

“and another.”

A small, bright green atomic device goes off in my right eye, there is a transient warmth that drifts (like swimming through the same patch of sea that someone has recently emptied their bladder into), and then a gaping crater in my vision as all my photochemicals have been bleached. What light there is in the room is now crepuscular and purple.

A knock at the door.

“Oh excuse me, I’d better attend to that.”

“Ok I’ll just try and recover some visual purple.”

“I wish everyone had your attititude.”

He returns.

“Umm, how many lasers is this likely to be?”

“About one hundred and twenty, maybe more.”

“Oh” (dimuendo)

Being a scientist can be no fun, for example we begin:

Explosion – One, one hundred and nineteen (maybe more) to go. Explosion – two, one hundred and eighteen (maybe more) to go. Explosion – Three, one hundred and seventeen (maybe more) to go.

I get instruction, such as “Look up and left”, sadly I no longer know where up and left is. There are two moments of what I call “Running stitch” where the bombardment comes so fast I lose count, eventually armistice day comes around and I am, for want of a better word, discharged. As indeed is my adrenal gland. Outside the hospital I feel violated, and a little tearful, but this soon dissipates as I return to work and scare the students with my enormous pupil.

This, of course is also the day when Caroline comes over from Dublin to stay, even after being forced to window shop for the afternoon, she is suitably sympathetic and gives me a Christmas card, which I am able to read, and some truffles which I am able to eat.

I still have a few floaters, I also have windowsill herbs, windowsill herbs that generate a surprising amount of small black flies from their compost, thus my evenings are spent in mystery, wondering whether I should try and grab the small motes that drift tanatalisingly past, or ignore them.

New Moans Here

I'd had my usual autumnal encounter with Death, this is the one where he pops into my life surrounded by his 18 - 21 year old acolytes brimming with whatever influenza they've encountered in pastures distant, and says, “ARE YOU READY YET?” When I answer in the negative, he merely pats me on the back and says, “Try these.” So it is the end of a week that has mainly consisted of sweat and exhaustion (the Gods of Alliteration are still there, going, “sleep”, “somnolence”, “soubriquets (?), well something that begins with ‘s’” but exhaustion is about right. I have spent three days i.e. seventy two hours having the same “edge of sleep” dream, whereby I had to do three things to stop me coughing, for seventy two hours I could only manage two, then I would have to breathe in, which would make me cough, so should I breathe in or not?

“ARE YOU READY NOW?”

Today I have moved out of the fever, and now am firmly in the zone of the hacking cough, hacking as in the axe that folds my trunk in two, the cough that leaves me surprised not to see my lungs decorating the floor in front of me, the cough that leaves me woozy after its onslaught (I haven’t worked this one out yet, I can’t decide if it’s a massive increase in blood pressure or a massive decrease, though I have decided it’s not a carotid aneurism, no – definitely not one of those).

Anyway, I came home and decided to do something positive, what could I do? I opened the ‘fridge, the cauliflower, the neglected cauliflower, spoke to me, it said, “You haven’t been eating much while you’ve been ill, have you? Me I’ve been ageing, I hope we can still get along?” The goat’s cheese just looked smug and self-centred, so he’s in the sauce, the smarmy git! I quickly closed the door, waiting for a time I could guarantee a rush of air through the house, and embarked on the sloe gin instead. I am now running a “with-“ and “without-” sugar experiment to see which matures faster.

I am, of course, on drugs, I favour cough remedies with dextrometorphan, a morphine analogue, that causes a decrease in the responsiveness of the airway, why? So that every time I take a breath, I’m not forced to cough, though one can argue about the wisdom of taking a respiratory depressant while suffering from a respiratory crisis, actually, you can argue, I like sleeping, especially after the first two days of not! When this moves depressingly on to lungs full of, hmm, stuff (as it invariably will in my experience*) then the regime changes, I produce large involuntary donations of sputum that I test a gamut of absorbent fibres with (not to mention detergent), and then, when it goes green, I have to try and persuade one of my GP’s that the current moratorium on antibiotics for colds, doesn’t apply, as I do not have a virus (any more). No, not even a green one!

In the meantime I’ll try to keep breathing, and swirl my sloes.

* Since I wrote this, it has, each breath sounds like an echo in a soup kitchen, I reckon my vital capacity is down to about fifty percent, which makes stairs quite exciting, and the prospect of attempting to attain the horizontal for sleep-purposes, a challenge. As I approach the preferred angle of somnolence, the mucosal tide comes in and washes the alveolar beach with raw crude, leaving my pulmonary pelicans in need of several volunteers with a bucket of soapy water and a consolatory herring. I hope to survive, watch this space

“I’M READY FOR YOU NOW SIR.”

“I’ll need a few minutes thanks.”

A damp squib

Well it was an interesting week, firstly I discovered that brushing the flour off the halogen hob isn't the best thing to do when it's on, secondly I discovered that the mains water in Hemel is, fortunately, very cold and, thirdly, that you can flatspot your fingerprints.
Saturday is market day in Hemel, consequently if anyone has an idea how to use 15 Limes - it was a bargain - I'll be pleased to receive them.
Saturday night was Bonfire Night ( a night to celebrate the non-assassination of James VI, when large quantities of heavy metals and sulphur are injected into the atmosphere), I had decided to watch the Rugby Club/Winkwell display from my bedroom window (no I haven't regressed back to childhood - well....umm..no) as that would give me the best view, yes I could have gone there but it was miz. As it was I got to see the middle third of the display - physically not temporally. The ground fireworks I could distinguish by what colour the smoke went, such as "Oooh red fountain. Aaah green fountain. Oooh silver fountain.". One third of the aerials I could see, the rest disappeared into low cloud so the display consisted of, "There it goes, oh." BOOM followed by the bottom half of a sphere of coloured sparks falling from the clouds. The finale was a set of mortar shells, as these finales go it was fairly standard, a series of shells fired to different heights all with the same fuse-timing to give one a stratified series of blooms, the higher the bigger. Well, we got the bottom half, the big shells disappeared into the cloud never to reappear, not even the flash from their explosion penetrating the murk. Later, in a masterpiece of the obvious, V for Vendetta was on the TV.

22.45 Friday. Stream of consciousness alert.

As a lot of you know I am signed up to a few dating sites, life being greener, better, whatever, with Another. A buzz word on dating sites is "tactile" though this is potentially a loaded term, it may mean, "Still interested in Shagging." (M) it may mean, "still capable of shagging." (M) deliberate lower case if anyone was going to complain) BUT it may mean "likes holding hands" (probably F). So with my testicles in mind (they tend to be - ask any man, no not about mine per se, just generally) how does one wittily address this part of a reply.

Initially I thought, "I'm the man who put the cti in tale" hoping for the recognition of a short, think pistol, round ricocheting of a solid surface. Then I thought, "Is this perhaps too male, too dark and violence/Asperger's loaded?", because a rifle or longer round would CKTIIiii, and would be more likely to tumble than splatter (depending on the angle of impact - naturally). So I decided to go for, "I'm the man who put the act in tile!". Now I'm at a loss how to proceed, women with an interest in "DIY" (no coding there) are flocking to my inbox, and I've never even spread a bit of grout.
Advice please

Some mistakes

I had been attending the last meeting of the Writing and Learning course, part of a department that had been found an unnecessary expense, we can audialise the meeting:
"So all things considered we can see that this is surplus to requirements and an expensive and haemorrhaging drain on resources that we can usefully deploy elsewhere."
"Umm wasn't this one of your exemplars, Mxxxxxxx?"
"Moving on!"

So, all things considered I was at a wake, and, as with all good wakes there was booze. After "closure" some of us decamped to the bar.
"What do you want?"
"A white wine, please."
"A sparkling water, please."
"A coke, please."
"Do you want diet?"

The cap blew off the can of worms with a audible exhalation! I had committed a cardinal sin.
In my semi-befuddled state, later I retreated home and committed my thoughts to the ether, sadly the ether rejected them so that when I came today, to extend this draft, I found seven words, however, I can remember that I wondered if I should be thinking about my bestial self, whether I had made assumptions, whether my behaviour had been condescending, outre, chauvinist? I considered my excuses, whether I should have cited a previous anorectic girlfriend for whom non-diet coke did not exist.
Eventually, the next morning I realised what I should have said was, "Any particular sort?"

A couple of days later, my guilt having drifted into the past, I sat in the lounge/living room/front room/parlour, waiting for my dinner to cook, I was roasting a slice of belly pork, and, for carbs, had decided on an aubergine, which I bunged in the oven. There was something niggling, something that I knew but that was subjugated by the TV. A loud explosion from the kitchen pulled me from my semi-moribund state, propelling me to face - what? A raging inferno from a fractured gas pipe, blue acrid smoke and sparks from a melted thirty amp mains. As I got to the door a third scenario occurred - the aubergine. I opened the oven, it was indeed the aubergine, now reduced to a sorry and disparate state - very disparate, in fact dispersed over the entire interior of the recently-cleaned oven.

It would be interesting to know which of the two of us was more surprised by the explosion, me or the aubergine?
Me - "What's that?"
The aubergine - " Gosh! This suit's a bit tight. Blime...!"

Ursa miner.

On Saturday I'm going skiing. People who know me well, may think that this is a bad idea, for Nick's weather lore suggests that I will be using my considerable-amount-per-day holiday to sit in bars, and watch lizards skip through the spring flowers (rather like my Winter mountaineering course several decades ago).
There was a potential glitch, I had to submit my passport details in order to become a bona-fide passenger, this turned out to be a most useful pre-departure exercise: vis - where was my passport? I'd used it for a pre-Christmas paramour (failed) jaunt to Belgium, and then had moved about three days later. Where the fu.... on Earth could it be now?
First check the files with fiscal and other important details, my late Mother's defunct building society books - yes, passport - no. Death certificates - various - yes, passport - no. Guide to Bryce Canyon and piste maps from Lake Tahoe, Keystone, Breckenridge and Vail -yes (I haven't been to Bryce Canyon or even Utah -though it is, of course, named after me Dad), passport - no!
A small panic, a tiny squirt from the beans above my kidneys. Pockets and bags from trip to Belgium, bottle opener - yes, map of Ghent (creased and marked by frost damage) - yes, unused contraceptives ( also frost-damaged, but only mentally) - yes, passport - no.
A bigger squirt, I was now moving to the arcane. I picked up the box-of-all-hope, the repository of treasured possessions complete with custodian, and opened the lid. Teddy looked back at me... passportless!
"For Gods' sake Teddy what do you think you're playing at! What on Earth have you done with my passport, why do you not have it, surely I'd have left it with you - Captain, my Captain?"
Blind panic set in, I searched below Teddy, in case I'd left it with one of the others, Dog, Lion, Rabbit, HyperGrouch, but no, the feckless bastards had abandoned me! Why, Oh, Why, had I not kept Panda, slow, reliable, trustworthy Panda, even the Trolls may have done a better job at a pinch?
Anguish now, "Teddy!"
He just looked, a non-committal, non-judgemental buttony stare, but I could see behind it, I could sense the recrimination, the "I'm not your keeper, just start looking after yourself, I won't be around to look after you forever, it's about time you took responsibility for your own actions", glazed gaze.
"Alright!" Chastened I turned to a box marked "Bric-a-brac" the contents of the top drawer of the small chest-of-drawers: old watches, old specs, cufflinks, badges declaring London a "nuclear-free zone", "rock against racism" and "I'm not a tourist, I live here" in Welsh (modesty forbids me mentioning the "I taught John Travolta to dance" badge), there under the bathing hat (for swimming in former Eastern Bloc countries - interesting; in France you are not allowed to wear shorts in a swimming pool, and in Hungary you have to wear a hat, there's a message there somewhere, but I fail to comprehend it), THERE under the bathing hat, was my beautiful passport.
As my heart rate dimmed I turned to Teddy and apologised, I thought he looked rather smug, so I left him in the box, I think he probably hid it to teach me a lesson, a lesson well-learned, put your passport somewhere obvious, like in the knife drawer.

SPRING - until it snows again.

Doo doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo, DOO DOOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO! The familiar strains of "Morning" from the Peer Gynt Suite (those old enough will remember that it used to advertise instant coffee) squoze their way out of my imagination and cranked open my eyelids. "Crikey! What was this?" it was sunshine, shouldering aside the cloud and waving, "Hello!". I decided not to be fooled, I got up, showered and poached some eggs. Nope it was definitely sunny, a weak and watery sunny, but a sunny nonetheless. I decided that after "Saturday Kitchen" I would replace my lost winter hat, stolen in Selfridges in December, I dropped it, and it was gone in two minutes, they didn't hand it in, probably coz it was about -5 (centigrade) outside (this was the only time I've ever wished for nits), buy some replacement trainers and that I would buy the wherewithal for making soda bread (I was inspired by a childrens' cookery programme on CBeebies). This is my equivalent of spring-cleaning, all those musty notes and lacklustre pieces of plastic in my wallet, what they need is a good air in balmy weather.
I donned my medium size pack, and headed for town, well, "headed" may not be quite the right term for: down the steep hill, up the steep hill, past the graveyard and down the other steep hill, "traipsed" may be better. One traipse later, and with the memory of the "weak and watery" shining through the crotch of my cords, I ended up in Marks and discovered a bargain in the replacement cords section (this will firmly remain a bargain, so long as I keep out of Primark). As I lovingly stuffed them in the medium pack I resolved not to cycle in them, cycling in corduroys produces a sort of reverse male pattern baldness (MPB), rather like old-fashioned teachers with pipe, tweed jacket with leather elbow patches - bilateral MPB. What were they for those patches? Did they really spend so much time with their head in their hands that they would wear out the elbows of their jackets? Let me think back over the eons to my days at school.... ok, if they were Latin or French masters then that may be true. But I digress.
Wilkinsons to buy a baking sheet... and a bird-feeder.. and two kilograms, TWO KILOGRAMS of bird feed. Even as I sit here tapping away, the bird feeder dangles temptingly from the washing line but so far, no takers. I'm also rather hoping that I have bought a bird-feeder rather than a cat-feeder, I'm quite looking forward to Summer and keeping feline marauders out of my greensward with a super-soaker.
TKMaxx for shoes, I am now the proud possessor of what appear to be a pair of Rohan clogs.
The market, spending in full swing now, but tempered with the knowledge of a decreasing amount of space in the medium pack, and a decreasing amount of muscle tone in my arms, legs and back. I buy lemons and lychees and look fondly at two large cauliflowers for £1.50 but what am I going to do with two large cauliflowers? A cauliflower goes a long way, had Jesus had a couple of cauliflowers on the mount I'm convinced he could have done double the feeding, though there might have been some grumbling from cauliflower despisers but then not everyone likes fish, look you didn't have to come here!
Actually seven lemons will go rather a long way too!
Asda, aka, Hell on Earth. The bad news - this is where I will buy my soda bread wherewithal, like flour, dense, heavy wholemeal flour, buttermilk - fat chance, ok soured cream, heavy soured cream, bicarbonate of soda (molecular weight 84.1, to put that in context water is only 18 and look how much that weighs!), and other foodstuffs notable for their density.
I traipse home, slower, with longer arms, and shoulders rounded by gravity, it's a well-known fact that gravity acts more on plastic bags than any other material (apart from the soul, where it's as heavy as sodium bicarb). But spring is here, it's here in the hazel catkins that have expanded to release their pollen (the botanical equivalent of descending testicles), it's here in the thrusting shoots of bulbs, it's here in male pigeons getting all ruffy and strutty, and most of all, it's here in the warbling tones of the ice-cream van touring the estates.

Under Pressure

I had been to the Battersea Beer Festival with pal Liz, and, after exercising a modicum of decorum and respectability, had arrived back at Hemel Hempstead station after a lengthy journey.
I left the station and began the walk up the hill to home. The walk - a series of four, five minute vignettes: station to first roundabout past the Fisheries Inn, roundabout to the Grapes pub, Grapes pub to crossing of main road, Northridge Way, Northridge Way to front door.
This night: station to first roundabout past Fisheries Inn: slight pressure in bladder due to lengthy train journey and previous visit to beer festival, should I use the Portaloo at the station (toilets being refurbed)? No, no lights and it's only a short walk. Fisheries Inn in sight, wistful stare in direction of Gents, is it worth having a pint to use the facilities, probably wouldn't make any odds (you only get out what you put in - First Law of Thermodynamics and Drinking, N.Hayes 2011), continue to roundabout.
Roundabout to the Grapes: increasing pressure in bladder caused contraction of urinary sphincter and other sphincters that don't exist, ponder the existence of non-existent sphincters, decide I will write a treatise on "The Use of Phantom Sphincters to prevent Mictatory Accident in the Middle-Aged, aka Indiana Jones and the Ring of Doom).

Brief note to older brother Steve, if you remember what happened when you read about the toothpaste incident - art as life - I should go now!

Grapes to Northridge Way: a further increase in pressure pushes my baroreceptors past "full" to "uncomfortably full", bushes and leylandii hedges in peoples gardens start to become animalistically attractive. However the prospect of being hauled off to the chokey for indecent exposure provides a welcome tempering. ("Come along now Sir." "Be with you in a minute - or two, Officer!")
Northridge Way to front door. "Uncomfortably Full" to "Maximum". I have a bladder the size of Jupiter, it is attended by the twin moons of Ganymede and Calypso formerly known as my kidneys. Hang on! Calypso is a water nymph. ...it is attended by the twin moons Ganymede and ....er...Io (much better - seduced by Jupiter disguised as a cloud, think light and airy thoughts) formerly known as my kidneys. Oh look there's the house! This is a moment for potential disaster, in as much as cows let down their milk upon entering the milking parlour, a feature we psychologists know as "operant conditioning", so the nether regions respond to the prospect of relief. An involuntary schizophrenia kicks in, I (though not I) fumble in my (though not my) pocket for my (though no...JUST GET ON WITH IT!) keys. I stop and survey the front garden in a detached manner, while sneaking up on the door lock, which I open and enter.
Hamlet. Act one, Scene one, Line eight!

A brush with terror

It begins, an angel tapdancing on the head of a pin, a feather's touch, a subliminal prickle at the back of my palate, I'm going to sneeze. Normally this would have me rummaging in my pocket for a handkerchief but I'm the sort of man who will try and find something to do in moments of tedium, so that, instead of staring at my frothing reflection in the bathroom mirror, I'm roaming the house while brushing my teeth, my cheeks are hamstered with minty foam, in fact I'm downstairs. My normal sang-froid evaporates along with common sense, so instead of moseying to the kitchen and the salivary watershed of the kitchen sink, I assault the stairs like a true Capricorn and arrive at the bathroom door - too late. A pyroclastic flow of mentholated detergent bursts from my lips, pebble-dashing the floreate tiles, polka-dotting the towels, window and mirror, making a delightful rosy counterpoint to the splashes of lime-scale. Then it's gone, the moment passed, I lean weakly against the wall contemplating how it could have been worse; the carpet, the sofa, the laptop, a full, nasal sneeze, powdered silica racing abrasively through my nostrils at one hundred and twenty miles an hour, twin streams of ejecta! I rinse, and go to bed.