This afternoon my wife heaved me onto her chest for our weekly trundle around the shops. I was happily nestled in an 'outward facing' bushbaby cocoon front carrier. The 'cocoon' has a pull out sun and rain shade. So if it rained, it rained. The only way to travel. Am I bone idle and/or a shirker? Well, both. To be hoisted aloft on the strong broad shoulders of a comely woman is one of life's jubilant pleasures. Has there been anything more valuable and greater in this world than the dawn of woman? I believe everything else pales into insignificance.
We descended upon the main street. 'Let's have lunch,' I said, smoking a cigar, contemplating whether, indeed, Joseph K. is guilty or innocent, and if he has a favourite joke or party piece. A waitress, wearing a Zadig and Voltaire Sequin Top that barely concealed her breasts, served us French teas and pastries.
When she looked at me with her sweet mocking eyes, a sharp sensuous wave of desire shot across my face. I bit my right ear lobe to remain conscious. I wondered if such an elegant, powerful lady could be attracted to a person who is docile, weak, wears Khaki Brown elasticated waist shorts (52 inch, I kid you not), and with a face no plastic surgeon could conjure an inkling of magic upon. My wife squeezed my hand and smiled. She was cheerful and relaxed. A few minutes later I boarded the 'cocoon'. We headed home with a delightful feeling of giddiness.
I am sitting in my back garden swigging Fybogel: a remarkable, lemon-flavoured drink which promises to relieve constipation without undue straining. The fact it causes thunderous flatus which - in my case - attracts sightseers from parts of the world yet to be discovered and clouds of mocking bloated pigeons, make it hard, nay, impossible, to express my feelings in simple or complex language.
This is what's happening. My shed has been casually migrating from my back garden since its construction. Is it an expression of unhappiness, hurt, disengagement with other wood constructions? Difficult to tell. I accept that my shed may wish to move to a more congenial setting. A neighbouring backyard, to be precise.
My neighbour came to visit me: loneliness can make people do extreme things, unless they can afford high-class hookers. He advised me that my 'migrating garden shed' was scarring him both emotionally and physically. Moreover, he attested that the shed knocked on his back door each night when the light of the moon replaces the light of the sun. I, having no wish to quarrel, told him the shed was culpable, not I. He wept, of course. I, bereft of sorrowfulness, offered consolation in the form of admonition.
'For your own peace of mind put some clothes on, and never let that sanctimonious shed into your home. If you relent, you will be condemned to slavery. In brief: repairs, repainting, and reading the wretched shanty "sea-faring" poems at bedtime. The damn thing has been indulged in an unbelievable manner and still craves attention.'
My neighbour walked away holding on to an invisible wall, disappearing, finally, like a ghost engulfed in fog. I thought I heard the garden shed shouting, 'Wait for me! Where are you going?! I can't see a thing! Wait for me!'
Reflections: My wife has a wonderful speaking voice. In fact, I remember hearing her voice before I first set eyes on her features. Her voice coiled gently around me and wandered into my senses. Time ceased to be relevant. I do not possess a vivid voice. Most of the time it fails to ignite and seeks out dark corners.
She is blessed with nobility of thought, benevolence, a wisdom born out of intellectual curiosity, and firmly believes that instinctive gestures come before words. Unfortunately, on certain occasions, words tend to be destitute and ignorant of the true depth and complexities of life.