the telephone is possibly the worst invention of all time. if i had a chance to meet mr. alexander graham bell, i wouldn’t take it. i would probably write him a tursely worded letter instead.
and it was still ringing. couldn’t it see that i was not in the mood?
i rolled off the couch onto the laundry littered floor that i had promised myself i would clean weeks ago. i bear crawled to the reciever, making a little path as i went.
i felt a little like one of those great icebreaker explorers, trudging through some frozen sea. i could see my name in headlines as they found my stiffened body wash up on some distant shore. how tragic. i finally reached the port and docked myself next to cordless phone and picked it up.
i could hear my voice almost growl into the speaker. i imagined my caller must think that i had grown some rather large fangs in their absence. perhaps a fur coat as well.
‘hey, i’m at the grocery store. is there anything we need?"
i felt as though he could hear me roll my eyes at this. he knew perfectly well how unlikely it was for me to even stand up, let alone go around the house looking for items that weren’t there. even so, i decided to make some thoughtful sounds as if i actually cared.
“um, i dunno. let me see. hmmm. uhh. hm. erm. ah. nope, i think we’re good”
i shuffled around a little more on the floor and open and closed the door for effect. it seemed to work.
“well, ok then. i’ll see you soon”
i hung up without bothering to say that i would also “see him soon”. i felt i hardly needed to remind him of that fact since he had already so brilliantly pointed it out. i began the long and arduous journey of nearly ten meters back to the couch, but never quite made it.
sometimes, he would walk in on me like this, just sprawled on the carpet staring at the ceiling. he would always ask if i was okay.
yes, i was ok, its just that some people don’t like to sit or stand all the time. they like to lie down. it didn’t help that the paint was covered in all sorts of interesting water stains. i would name the friends i found in there. it was almost like watching clouds.
i heard the click of the latch and his big man feet stomping around upstairs. like an ogre. i could see him now, barrelling down the stairs with the scent of the last cigar on his teeth and the alcohol coursing through his veins. and he would yell at me, but only in that british accent that he faked so well.
“fee fi fo fum”
something something something something. i could never remember the rest of that rhyme. all i knew was that it didn’t actually rhyme and it always pissed me off. stupid nursery songs. sometimes, i wish he would really yell at me, and not as an ogre. as a person.
i wished he would scream at me to get up.
i wished he would kick at me and pull at my hair.
i didn’t care what he did to me.
because both he and i knew very well who the real ogre was…
i haven’t slept in days…