The previous tales are just three of the many stories in my dysfunctional life post-divorce. Others like, the night I ran in to the wheelie bin, the evening before the council emptied them. I was just rushing home to get the car, ok, to go down the pub, and breaking a rib. Which had it been a more colourful story would have been accident number four, but, I can’t say it anymore literate than that, I mean, who breaks a rib on a bin? Yes the village I was in had no street lights, but I mean a bin! And yet, was it my haste to arrive at the pub a minute or two earlier, the reason that a four foot tall dustbin broke the most painful bone I had broken since the last one? Does it really mean that alcohol played its part in one way or another? I was sober at the time, and it hurt like a bitch, or is it just something we all do but never tell? Who knows? But the other minor infringements are detailed below, or were they as minor as I have made out? Just let me know.
Or, there was the time I was celebrating the first years anniversary of accident number three, walking home along a grass verge, so pissed I could not stand, ending up on more than one occasion face down in the thistles. Upon waking the next morning, I resembled a man, who had the night before been getting off with a hedgehog, it took half an hour to rid my face of thistle spines, even then I could feel the prickle of them for a few days to come…..
Or even one night at work, still a little shaky from many months of revelry, while lighting our big industrial char grill, I had instead of removing the char grill bars, propped them up precariously, weighing in at about ten kilo’s each, I leaned over the char grill ignition to see if the pilots had lit, when, THUD! One toppled, only to be stopped mid fall, by my head. It was to leave a pretty Y shaped scar on my shiny bald dome, and the ridicule I got at the pub later that night for having a bright blue plaster stuck to the top of my head, well you can imagine. Phil’s only comment to be,
“Is the char grill ok?”
And as I was I to reach for my wallet and buy us a pint, then he was to say,
“No! Your round you fat bastard, I don’t wanna another drink yet”
The only bright side to this story was the post-accident nursing I had from the hotels receptionist.
Remember all these stories and try to avoid doing the same, I may have added a bit of humour to them, or even have shown a brighter side to them but, they could have all had a more sinister edge had it been “my time”. Remember, although it has been fun so far to read this account of me and my life post-divorce accidents, this is a true story. None of the above is a lie. These are things I have lived through, although at times only just. Who knows the damage that a constant consumption of beer and spirits will have done to the internal workings of my body, also the damage caused by smoking both cigarettes and dope. Life now for me is on the up but my demons still have a grasp on my tortured soul. Maybe I will finally come to terms with them; maybe I will slip back in to their loving embrace.
The man down below awaits the deliverance of my soul to his fiery depths, for just a few years of sin.