Billygean.co.uk

Compulsive Reading

Wherein I am an idiot

My more long-term readers may remember that when i was in hospital, doctor-sister had to hide the bigger tablets in Kinder beaunos so I would swallow them.

I don’t know what it is. I know that if they’re too big they won’t go into my lungs. I know that I regularly swallow, well, meals, but for some reason I cannot do it.

Today in Boots I decided to buy some IBS relief. Mostly because I have every symptom. Also because, following a mild panic attack in the Next Sale, I really needed some chocolate – so why not eat dairy and then treat the spasms with drugs? Hmm?

“Do you have medically confirmed IBS?” The lady at the till, whom my Dad said made me look CHUBBY, says.

“Yes,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. Sister is a doctor now. And so is Google.

Twenty minutes later, the TEN PENCE SIZED PILL is on the breadboard and I am standing with a half-empty (indeed) glass of water.

“There is no point staring at the pill and sipping the water,” my Dad says, smirking as he fills the kettle.

“Oh my God,” I say, pacing. “Just do it.”

I stare at the pill. It gets bigger. “Just fucking do it.”

“I am having a tantrum,” I say, slamming my hand down on the breadboard. I take another sip of water.

“Take a gulp of water,” my Dad says.

I nod, my cheeks puffed out with water.

“Now swallow it all in one go.”

I do so.

“See how much bigger that volume was than the tablet?”

“YES I do,” I spit. “I KNOW this is irrational but I PHYSICALLY CAN’T DO IT.”

“Can you swallow a grape whole?” my Dad says.

“No.”

“How about an orange?”

“No.”

“Best off sticking it up your arse and be done with,” he says, wandering out of the room.

Slowly, I put the tablet on my tongue.

And then I freak out and take it off again.

I put it on again. It’s quite shiny and sugary. I take a drink. I can feel it rattling around.

Suddenly I swallow. And it’s gone. It’s not in my mouth!

I wander into the living room and triumphantly display my empty mouth to my Dad who is reading the instructions.

“Excellent,” he says. “Now all we’ve got to do is wait for the allergic reactions.”

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NB I am okay

Last night doctor-sister and I were driving back from Christmas Eve’s Eve at my Mum’s. The roads were pitch black and foggy, the mist tumbling over the nearby lakes. The speed limit was about 40. A car on the other side of the road overtook another car, doing about 90. It missed us by about a foot.

“Fuck!” doctor-sister shrieked.

She stayed over at ours last night instead of driving back. I am so happy I, and everyone I know, is safe and sound. Needless to say I am also happy because I have two cats on my knee.

Have a wonderful Christmas.

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So I’m going to put some weight on this Christmas

Just as my Dad and I reach the check out he turns to me. “Can you get a paper?” he says.

“Which one?”

“The Times, or the Telegraph.”

“I’m not buying the Torygraph,” I say.

“Fine,” he sighs. “The Guardian then.”

Feeling tribumphant I wade through the Christmas shoppers. As I pass the freezers a blonde girl who comes up to my knees tugs on my coat.

Feeling slightly uncomfortable, because it’s a child, and I don’t know how to talk to them, I bend down. She has enormous brown eyes. She hands me a tub of ice cream and walks off.

I carry on past the freezer section and walk round a couple in the aisle.

“She went that way,” one of them is saying. “I can hear her calling.”

“Are you looking for a blonde girl?” I say, pointing them in the direction I saw her.

“She alright?” the woman says.

“Fine,” I smile. “She gave me some ice cream.”

“Sounds about right. You look like you need it.”

That’s the last time I retrieve your child then, I think as I stand in the aisle.

“Jeff!” she shrieks. “That’s not her, this lady says she over there!”

You have to wonder, don’t you?

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FYI: I have since walked into a doorframe but Suzy says nose is probably not broken but is quite swollen

One of my Newcastle Unlces passes me the gravy.

“And how is, er…” he says. “The fella. I will remember, hold on,”

I open my mouth to say “Mike.”

“George,” my Dad says.

“Ah, George,” Newcastle Uncle says.

“He’s fine,” my Dad says as I open my mouth again. “Got on a graduate engineering scheme.”

“Jolly good,” he says. “And will you see him for Christmas?”

“No, I say. And by the way it’s-”

“Speaking of Christmas, what’re you cooking for everyone?” Newcastle Uncle says, turning to my sister.

The conversation moves on. They all think I’m dating a George.

“I am putting you in a HOME” I hiss at my Dad across the table.

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Oww

My well-behaved foot is not being well behaved.

One, the big toe now goes under the second toe.

Two, it’s red and hurts to touch.

Three, it hurts to walk.

Not good.

(FYI I had surgery on badly-behaved foot last year. It’s now fine and dandy with pins and the like)

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Wherein Mike is unreasonable. Or is it me again?

On Friday Mike went to Coventry to stay at his friend’s house. All I know about this is that he was texting me (affectionate) gibberish by one in the morning.

Naturally, on his return home, I thought Christmas shopping would be a good idea. I’d meet him in town off his train from Coventry, it was nice and early so we’d get home for lunch, and could have the rest of the day to work, right?

Wrong.

It took me two hours to get into town. My house is half an hour from the train station. And the train takes 15 minutes. The rest of then time, then, was spent standing at the train station wondering why every eleven year old now has a hoody, a pair of pink converses and an ipod.

I met Mike in new street and has to call him twice because I couldn’t see him because THERE WERE A MILLION PEOPLE. I mean it. What are they all DOING? Just take a day off, for goodness’ sake. I of course cannot take a day off because the law school would put a horse’s head in my bed and chuck me off the course.

We tried to stay in the Bullring, really we did. But when I got mouthy at the 18th person to stop randomly in my path, or stare at the ceiling and bump into me, or run their pushchair over my feet, we escaped for lunch. We actually just exited the Bullring randomly through a side door because we couldn’t cope.

So we went to the Mailbox for lunch. Yes, this is bad and expensive. But there were no people. We wandered around the canal and I told him we were going to live in a beautiful penthouse flat.

And we ate the best Thai green chicken curry ever. Seriously. It was so creamy (coconut milk isn’t dairy, by the way). We also decided we liked the plates. Score one for future living together plans – we have the same taste in plates.

Unfortunately after I put the camera on close-up for this photo I forgot to take it off again. So The rest of the photos are defunct.

Anyway, we then went to the German market and I peered in at Law Firm to show Mike the poshness of where I’ll work. However I did see some lawyers in there. On a Saturday. Yes.

Then we decided the shopping had actually better happen. Of course, Mike did his family in one fell swoop (because he has three people to buy for). Then he started to get agitated. Possibly because he hadn’t been home yet and he did smell of alcohol. Oh yes. Firstly, when I insisted trying on a beautiful dress I neither needed nor planned to buy. But look at it:

So we finally ended up in Debenhams, when Mike’s world imploded in on his. There was a constant stream of babies crying, and people spraying perfume, and my chatter of “should I get them a lamp?” “Or how about a painting?”

Eventually, he sat down on a beanbag with all our bags (ahem) and told me to go and find a present and buy it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t do this. I instead found a duvet I thought was amusing.

“Right,” Mike said, when I brought it to him. “You were supposed to get a present for someone, and instead you’ve come back with a SINGLE duvet cover with a DOG on it because it looks like a FOLDER YOU HAVE?”

He had a proper sulk, I’m telling you.

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I think he will be glad to live apart

Mike has a deadline tomorrow. Usually this involves him playing Muse at high volumes, drinking constant streams of tea and working all night.

Tonight, though, he decided to come and work in my room on his laptop.

All very well, you might think, since I am glued to my land law textbook. We didn’t particularly disturb each other, I played good music, and read the occasional boring legal anecdote to him.

Then he had to print said deadline just as I finished land law textbook (Did you hear that Stevens? NEVER AGAIN) at half midnight. He’s left his memory stick at home so has no way to print the assignment. And guess who he gave his floppy discs to?

That’s right, your very own Billygean.

We eventually found them under the bed, having slipped behind the drawers (the ones that I broke, evidenced by the fact that anything can slip behind them).

He is currently clutching the floppies, muttering sarcastically about things he’s found (candles, MP3 player, tampons, batteries, diclophenac tablets) and folding my clothes.

Sigh.

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Point of view

“Dinner’s ready,” Mike says, popping his head over the banister. We’re at his parents’ house. I walk slowly out of his room and put my hands on his over the railing.

“What’s the matter?” he says immediately.

“Nothing.”

“Are you worrying about work or next year?”

“Next year,” I say, staring down.

He pulls me towards him. With the light from the cracks around the front door running up the stairs, we almost look like one shadow leaning over the banister.

“I’ll do my best not to leave you,” he whispers in my ear. I open my eyes and see the freckles on his ear, the baby hairs on his neck and feel my tears weave into the strands of his jumper.

He releases me after a while and I stand there in the patch of sunlight, watching his his head bob down the stairs, his fingers peel off the railing one by one until he all but disappears.

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