As I prepare for a day shift, I’d prefer for this not to be happening an hour’s drive from me.

Well, Kerry and Zeno anyway, who are the “cool kids” as far as I’m concerned.

And the reasons it cites for making me a 17+ only blog?

Death fucking crack turd…that’s me.

(I dread to think of the Google hits this post will garner me)

BTW - I’m aware that I’m not writing anything huge at the moment, shifts and sleep are eating all my time, so I’m doing the blog equivalent of throwing packets of Haribo into the back seat to keep you all quiet.

But we’ll stop somewhere soon, I *promise*.

Fuck modesty.

That went well.

I’ll be having my final on the road assessment with DTO Cha-Cha.

At the end of the day he’ll say something along the lines of “Oooh…you’re rubbish at this.” or some alternative and I’ll go and get a job in KFC. Which will make the theme of this blog a little difficult.

So cross your fingers for me? Because if I fuck up tomorrow, I won’t have any more stories for you to read.

And that would be sad.

In “Flitting” I gave you guys an impression of my patch, and it’s a largely true one, but it’s not all bad.

My patch is not a salubrious end of town, the rates are cheap and, as a result, we have a wide mix of people living and working here. If you’re just moved to the city from abroad and want to set up business, my patch is where you set up, the rent is cheap and the lots are small.

So I found myself today wandering into a little Italian deli while looking after Wee Sam. No sooner had I entered that a little girl came barrelling up to the buggy.

“Hello! What’s his name?”
“Hi there, that’s Sam.”
“HiSamI’mGirlsnameI’mnotwelltodaysoI’mnotatnurseryI’mhelpingherethisismyMumandDad’sDelihowoldisSam?”
“He’s one.”
“I’mthree.”

I bought my coffee, nattered with her Mum for a bit, ooohed and ahhed at the amazing looking cheese and cured meats behind the glass and headed out into the sunshine, slurping my latte as I went.

Hours later, my young charge returned to the bosom of his maw and I hustled down to the Deli again, was again greeted by Girlsname as I entered and spent an amazing twenty minutes chatting to the owners as they let me sample their wares and buy a paper bag full of imported Italian goodies. I had to clarify something “She’s ‘Girlsname’”?
“Yep.”
“Hence the name of the deli?”
“Yep.” A smile, shy and proud.
Because I’d noticed as I came back the second time that their Deli and their daughter share a moninker, they named their business after their kid. They’ve only been open for a year, moved, I assume, to the country soon before.

But I’m thrilled to have found them, I’ve a soft spot for family businesses since I grew up in one, I’ve a soft spot for people who are passionate about their jobs and businesses and I’m passionate about good food.

And that, my friends, is why I’ve just eaten a plate of pasta and sausage with the greenest, tartest, creamiest fresh pesto I’ve ever tasted.

After that, Sacla can away and fuck itsel’.

Czech escalators.

Addressing the gathered throng of onlookers as the patient’s blood and brain spattered down the gutter by their feet.

“Can I ask anyone who witnessed this to come and see me, and everyone else to go home and watch Casualty, please?”

I know her!

Introducing…The Hot Dots!

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You’re 102 years old and I’m taking you home to die.

You’re blind and deaf, moaning and crying, twisting away when I hold your hand.

You lie quietly if I leave you alone.

I’ll just sit here as we bump and jostle along the cobbles of the Old Town.

Your skin is translucent, your veins bright and blue as irises under February ice.

Your cheeks are collapsed, your eyes dull and retracted, the cartilage of your nose the only prominence of your face.

You rattle like a pill bottle as you snatch breath over your arid lips.

Your breath reeks of death, of failing organs, of crashing toxin tides inside you, eating you away.

A hundred and two.

That’s two World Wars, depressions, booms and busts, five monarchs. What stories do you hold?

There’s a conflict inside me, the medic doesn’t fear your condition, recognises your impending demise; he’s pragmatic and objective and fiercely quarelling with my internal kid.

You’re the oldest person I’ve ever seen, my mind spins madly at the thought of someone who’s lived my life four times over. I’m used to people dying before their time, sudden and unexpected death is my bread and butter.

But you, you’ve got it coming. I’m not accustomed to having this spectre in the room with us, I shouldn’t be, I’m a young man. It would be obscene to be blasé about your situation.

My pragmatism tells me that you were once a young woman, once my age with my dreams and aspirations, drives and fears. Did those cheeks wear rouge? Were your lips reddened? Did you dance? Glance across the room at a young suitor and laugh with your friends, hiding your smile behind polished nails?

Did you get drunk and screw some guy, regretting it in the morning? Did you agonise over the future? Your career? Your family?

I’m staring at your face, counting each breath in and out, begging you to survive to the end of the ride. I rummaged through your notes with the nurses for a DNR, but couldn’t find one. If you arrest I’ll have to work on you, smash your budgie-cage ribs under my shoulders, haul on your jaw, electrocute you. Paperwork would force me to torture you in what would undoubtedly and deservedly be your final minutes.

Don’t do that to me.

I’m taking you home.

We’ve all known that Zeno is one of the best people in the world for quite some time.

But this just seals it.