Saturday, February 26, 2011

Won't You Look Down 'Pon Me, Jesus

Yesterday I was sitting at Pandey's waiting for the man to finish making the black puttu that Dadda had asked for when I was assailed by one of those feelings. You know the type, where you look at your life from all directions, from every angle, and all you can see is failure, the wreckage of dreams, schemes not complete, everything abandoned and rotting.

That's what I felt.

I watched the people tucking into the food, chatting amiably with each other, feeding the scores of cats twisting themselves around the outdoor tables, and fended off the persistent waiter who told me firstly, that I hadn't been there for at least four months, and secondly, I should at least have a hot Nescafe while waiting.

No can do. Coffee disturbs my sleep.

And let's face it.

I'm disturbed enough as it is.

I can't seem to get a hold of things. I keep catching the slimy ends which means they slip from my hands, leaving an icky, gooey residue.

And yesterday, I dreamed of a turtle (it may have been a tortoise, I cannot tell the difference) which had been disembowelled, its heart and liver eaten, and then burnt to a crisp, which was still staggering around, apparently alive.

I turned to the people (or person, I can't remember at this point) and asked...didn't you remove the heart? And they said, yes, nodding vigorously.

And I asked, well, then can I have this turtle? I will take care of this burnt, heartless, liverless turtle, I will put it in the tank with our other turtles, or give it its own tank, or better still, a garden in which to disport itself.

And they were reluctant. Although they didn't care, having killed the turtle who refused to die, once.

As Phoebe once said, when she found she was shedding an excessive number of eyelashes:

"What is up with the Universe?"

Oh yeah, and Dadda hated the puttu.

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