All good things must come to an end �
August 27, 2002 ~ 3:32 p.m.
It was a national holiday in Britain this past Monday, the Summer Bank Holiday. It is the equivalent of the American Labor Day. So that means a long weekend for yours truly. Righteous, party on, and all that.
The only problem with a long weekend? It ends all too soon.
When I woke up this morning, heavily clouded skies hung in the stratosphere as a harbinger of possibly torrential rain. I arrived at the station to find my train parked there. But there it just sat. And sat, and sat. Because I am not one of these sadsacks for whom an existence without a cell phone is a life without meaning, I disembarked and ran upstairs to the pay-phones to place a call into work to say that I�d be late (I�ll admit, it�s times like these�and only these�that I envy cell phone owners). I glanced up at all the indicators. �Delayed� or �cancelled� showed up on the screen wherever I looked. The message I left to my supervisor indicated that I wasn�t exactly sure when I�d be in.
My wife, who leaves half-an-hour after I do, saw me still standing on platform number one. �Don�t ask,� I told her. �Something about debris on the line causing all the delays.� I rolled my eyes. �What a load of shit.�
When it finally arrived, I sat glumly on the train, listening to the bright chatter of some people around me. How on earth can some people be so full of life and happy at this time of the day? I could only wonder as I sat, arms folded, pretending to snooze but finding no joy.
You must stand in awe at some of the world�s true marvels:
� The Grand Canyon
� Organized Religion
� The Corey Hart Fan Club
� People Who Are Happy to be Alive on a Packed Commuter-Rail Train at Eight-friggin�-Thirty in the Goddamn A.M.
Anyhow, there I sat, embarrassed to be wearing shades (I never use the word �sunglasses� after Corey Hart) on such a dark morning. But it was better than showing off the shiner that I received on Saturday. On that lovely warm, partly cloudy day, we went into Middlesex, just outside London, to visit friends of ours. This couple have a new puppy. Said puppy is a pure Labrador, about 99 pounds of pure muscle, and stands about 62 inches on his hind legs.
While engaged in a tug-of-war with this young, energetic beast, I lost hold of the piece of rope and a fist smashed up into my right eye. I had just beaten myself up good and hard. I stumbled around the yard, wondering why neither my wife nor our friends seemed to take any concern. They just didn�t notice. And because I am the strong, silent type, I didn�t utter a sound. I do what nightdragons always do when experiencing a healthy dose of pain�I emitted a barely audible hiss. It was only later, when I sat down to take a breather and a sip of beer that my wife said, �What�s wrong with your eye?�
Yet here�s the thing: My eye blackened on the lid only, not around the eye. And there was no swelling. So, basically, unless you knew better, it looks at though I�m wearing eyeliner on my right eye. Hence, the shades.
I think I just should have stayed in bed today. A four-day weekend? Sounds good to me.
� M.E.M.
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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.
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