Rāhui Day 12 (14): Prepared for an online team meeting this morning but it’s actually tomorrow.
Spent a lot of today rewriting handbooks for work. Pretty pleased with them really.
Then started a governance report for a board I’m on (Archery New Zealand) while Cushla shopped.
Talked to a gorgeous human on Skype. She’s getting a puppy so I’m as jealous as fuck, but she’s lovely so I kept it to myself. She’s really, really lovely. And smart. I’m especially fond of the smartypants ones.
Finished the report. It’s so good I can sense the simple-minded turning up to deify me for writing such a masterwork and to argue over it like you would with a real religion. It’s the right time of the year for a good crucifixion – if only I was allowed outside. Oh well, fuck it, I’ll re-read ‘Finnegan’s Wake’ instead. That’ll do it. That’s a slow painful death if ever I read one. ‘Ulysses’ is longer, slower, more rabidly cruciform but it borders on torture and the cruel and inhumane so I’ll be having none of that, now, will I not!
Finn shot 150 outside. He had his ‘I’m busy, fuck off’ face on so, I sat on the toilet until he’d finished shooting. My decision was made in part out of respect for his processes and in another part because, if I’m this bored shitless with myself, I have to consider an ‘I’m busy, fuck off’ face to be a ‘stay in the dunny and hide’ cunning sort of win.
So I did.
Stay in the dunny.
Have to say even a few private minutes alone in the loo has lost its gloss. You’re pretty fucked when washing your hands is the highlight of your day and a reason for jubilation. Truth is, I’ve jubilated so many times over this past month that even my old Mum would be telling me ‘it’s ok, that’s enough washing, you can stop now’. She’s dead just at the moment but, if she was alive, she would be telling me exactly that. She’d also happily join the déifiérs. She liked nothing better than rolling a giant rock away from a tomb and shouting ‘surprise!’
Well, she was raised by Anglican nuns in an orphanage so you’d expect nothing less.
Cushla brought important stuff back from the shop but I don’t know what. I didn’t ask. She told me a long story about a black cat she’d seen that I’d like to share with you but I wasn’t really listening so I can’t. Not properly listening anyway. I entirely missed the punchline. Sorry about that. Chocolate appeared, and licorice allsorts, which I ate voraciously even though I wasn’t that hungry by then. Now, after that gorging, I know it’s going to be a two Mylanta kind of night.
Cushla went to bed early but I had to finish my report so I stayed on. Five thousand fucking words that no-one will ever read. Finn had his ‘fuck off I’m playing Minecraft’ face on so I told him I loved him and went back to the bathroom. I think he grunted but I’m not sure. A by-product of this fucking virus is that the supermarket has run out of hearing aid batteries. What sort of panic buying banjaxed poxbottle would purchase all the hearing aid batteries? I ask you. Being deaf is like losing your walking stick, it’s no fucking joke. Makes me always fall over the words instead of tripping on the cat or some such.
Anyway. That’s that. Gone and done for.
I was looking forward to washing my hands while I sat there on the loo but made the mistake of checking my emails only to find my boss has changed the rules again so all the work I did earlier today won’t be needed now because we’ve moved on to Plan K or F or some fucking thing.
Upset? Me? Not really.
Well, maybe a bit, because I did forget to wash my hands. That’s a COVID 19 first for me, forgetting to wash my hands. Reckon I’ll be dead by morning for forgetting to wash my hands. Reckon I will. That’s a sign I’m upset, I guess. Being dead by the morning. Could be, anyway.
Went back to the lounge but Minecraft was done, Finn had gone to bed, and Post Malone was dismantling the house decibel by decibel from his bedroom. Even though I couldn’t see him I knew he was wearing his punctuationless ‘Zombie Apocalypse if you come in here so fuck right off and now would be nice’ face so I took a quick rain check on that and went to bed. I like Post Malone so that part was good. Could be a useful avoidance tool when the crucifiérs come, him with his ‘dead man walking’ face blasting Post Malone in his ears, but then probably possibly not. He’ll no doubt be intently playing Pokémon by then and wearing his ‘I’ve caught five shinys so you can just fuck off’ special Good Friday ‘I’ve given you up for Lent’ face and I would certainly both admire and respect that.
When I went to bed Cushla was making the sort of sounds you make when you’re pretending to be asleep and she courageously maintained this stance for what seemed like hours as I blundered about in the dark knocking things over and taking all the time in the world to get into my bed. Have to admit managing a walking stick in a small room in the pitch black is a skill that continues to elude me but I keep trying. I do so keep trying. It’s quite upsetting that people in my bubble think I’m doing it on purpose just to piss them off but I’m not. Not every time anyway. That time I arsed-up down the stairs, that was an accident, it really was.
I had a dream last night that Cushla had made an artwork of my face that looked like the Stations of the Cross but was crafted out of photographs of me and termites had already begun to eat it. It didn’t really matter much because the eyes had already all been shot out by darts or forks or daggers or something sharp, so it was never going to sell for much anyway. Who would do that sort of thing? Pins in effigies I can understand, especially if you’re dealing with a deity with a death wish like me, but darts in the eyes is a bridge way too far. I don’t doubt you’d agree. And at Easter, too. I asked her about it this morning. I might have been a bit confrontational but we’re all stressed. I was. Especially about the eyes. Have to say I was impressed with how she unconvincingly denied all knowledge, but you know what it’s like when it’s fibs, don’t you? When it’s barefaced fibs. Well, you do know, don’t you? You just bloody do.
PS
This is, of course, almost entirely fiction. Yes, Cushla shopped. Yes, my wonderful young Finn shot, spent the day otherwise at school, and played Minecraft in the evening. And, yes, I wrote for most of the day and Skype’d my dear doggy friend as the sun dropped over the yardarm, but the rest is fiction, a silly, bored and boring, exercise written in the style James Joyce used in ‘Finnegan’s Wake’. You can almost smell the Liffey. If you want to check my work for authenticity, you’d best first read your Joyce. It’s the only way you’ll gain sufficient credibility to challenge a deity, albeit a junior one, like me. Now, I’m off to hide for a bit. See you on Easter Sunday. 
dykiegirl 