Once a week

The aim is to post at least once a week, but I don't know whether that will actually happen. It's hard to find things to write about sometimes.

Ok. I have found a story.


There was an old gentleman in a nursing home who had dementia. Although he's sweet most of the time and wanders around relatively harmlessly, this one day, he was in a cheeky mood. He sought out every staff member he could find and asked them if they knew a certain person, citing (his) full name and date of birth. Depending upon the staff member's response, he would grin or just move onto the next person to try his joke on them.

Some of the staff were rather unimaginative and didn't realise he was joking around. They thought he was being a little more strange and confused than usual. A few played along and pretended we didn't know who he was and weren't sure who or what he was talking about. He enjoyed that, but tended to cut it short, getting really excited about it, because the person both sides were rattling facts off about were him (surprise!). Which would make both people involved in the joke laugh.


So it's not written so well, but I think it was cute.

I guess you'll know if I don't have any ideas of what to write about. You'll be bored and wonder why you even come here to read anything.

In any case, please forgive this (what I call a rubbish post, because it's not worth reading), and perhaps I'll find something better for next time.

Maybe something to do with how I ate a 500gm packet of fizzoes lollies in one week when I normally dislike eating sweets (because they're usually too sweet for me).



...
Once a week he wrote a list and once a week he shopped. Once a week he did his laundry and once a week he gardened. Once a week, he dropped a coin, in the same spot of the street, and then would hide around the corner to watch a little boy in yellow boots run to pick it up and bring it home to his mother who once a week went to the store, but had not enough to pay for all the groceries she needed. Once a week, he smiled at the very end of the week, when all the things to do on the list had been crossed out and he had his once a week day of rest.

Once a week he did odd jobs for the people in his street, who needed their driveway swept, their leaves rake or linen draped out on the lines to dry. Once a week he made tea for a little old granny on her way to her weekly bingo game, because she'd stop to rest at the seat he put out and then give him advice on his roses. Once a week he baked a loaf of raisin bread for supper, but once a week instead of eating it, left it wrapped on the doorstep of the little boy in yellow boots. Once a week a neighbour would leave a jug of cream, sitting beside his wrapped loaf, and then they'd both walk away unnoticed.

Once a week he'd leave his boots outside on the porch and once a week he'd find them cleaned and polished in the morning. Once a week he'd open his door, for the little boy in yellow boots to sit on the step under shelter, while he waited for his mother to finish work. Once a week he'd give the boy a plate of cookies to eat with milk and once a week he'd have the best time of the week, spending time talking or playing games with that little boy.

Once a week there'd be a pie that he couldn't possibly eat all himself and once a week he'd invite the little boy in yellow boots over with his mother to help him finish it. Once a week, after pie, he'd go to the kitchen to find it cleaned. Once a week, he'd pretend he hadn't noticed, but grin to himself, after they'd left unseen.

Once a week he'd lie in his garden and look up in the sky. Once a week while laying there, he'd chat with the neighbour through the fence and sigh at the times long since gone by.

Eggs attack

Never underestimate your food. Most of the time, you think you are safe and that the domesticated food item will never attack, but sometimes you are wrong. Sometimes, there is the rebel food item that decides to lead a revolution, which in turn incites the other food items to follow its lead.

I was following the culture and lead of my forebears in the boiling, shelling and eating of eggs. Those who have gone before have passed down the saying not to play with one's food, although they never said what to do if your food is attacking you. Due to the attack, I put into practice the battle cry of: No mercy. No quarter.

I did nothing new or different in the way I had cooked or shelled the chicken eggs. Everything was perfectly normal.

Except one egg took exception to being shelled - that is it didn't just stay still to take the shelling calmly. I wish I could say it was a rotten egg, but it was far from the smelly kind of rotten. It was a rebel kind of rotten.

The shell burst apart the moment I cracked it and delivered a scathing attack up close and personal with my fingers, which questioned the integrity of my skin and belied the age old belief that the humble, fragile egg was harmless to the non-egg allergic human being.

Keeping calm, seeing as the egg finally surrendered to being undressed, I started shelling the next egg, which did the same. Only this egg's assault left splinters in my even-more-fragile-than-egg-shells skin. With a little more fuss, this egg too had to surrender to my superiority.

Having seen or felt (or whatever it is that eggs do) the aggressive, penetrating lead of the initial two eggs, the subsequent eggs continued the attack until my fingers were quite red, sore and displeased by the repeated attempts at surprise ambushes by egg shell. Happily, by the time my fingers were getting ready to rebel themselves at the potential cost in blood, the eggs were done. Beautifully and nakedly exposed in all their glowing white softness.

And as I am not one to remain prejudiced or in any way discriminatory against my food, I ate those lovely boiled eggs with drops of light soy sauce, in order to experience the fullness of their flavour.

Sweet savoury revenge.


This is a true story. It happened today.