It’s Time… Pt20
Written by Prim on 26/08/2022
But it’s gonna be… Normal
‘Disagreement is something normal’
‘Normal is believing you’re a carrot… err camel, horse…’
Nothing is normal. You are not normal. Normal is not normal. Normal is neo-normality borne out of the ordinary. We are normal, which is not. Nearly fell into yet another ‘Brian’ quote, which would be normal, ‘You’re all individuals… I’m not…’ but didn’t, so don’t go there. Ergo, being right now is not now but was then, unless you are. However, this week did.
Aye, Sunday saw, a standard flurry of Sunday derring do’s (there’s that Brian again), ‘about 11ish Sire.’ -There was the domestication of the house, domesticated the car; I only meant to give the wheels a rinse, honest Gov, but the sun was out, radio was on, top was off, and the whole lot got rinsed… gotta whole lotta rinse.
Thereby with a skittish want for a careless stroll under the blue skies of summers end (thereby and ergo, what what), we set for a walk in the woods to seek cricket and a sausage sarnie. Argh, the woods. I didn’t scare anyone. Cherry did, does, can, she has that look. Great, things are not turning not-normal again. For a moment there I was half expecting The Stepford Wives to enter offering apple pie. Imagination, not to be used on the un-normal. Hey, you keep that to yourself.
We found England’s quaint essential pastime disrupted by a white clad arse-wipe bashing the be-jeepers out of his own over indulged self-worth larger than life Ludditeness insisting his banter was best because it could be heard.
PRIM: ‘Cherry… wait… wait… wait’
CRICKET PLAYER: ‘Oh, good shot Toby…’
PRIM: Cherry, kill
People return to conversation to find loud Luddite gone and but a dust of black and white fur settling where he stood
On the Saturday the girls went to see Preston North End. Footie on a Saturday, cricket on a Sunday, nothing normal to see here. Walk along the bus… room upstairs. I, however, shared my Postie round with a scouser who thought coal should be brought back temporarily to solve the fuel crisis. I hate that word. The only crisis our generation ever lived through was the Marmite shortage of 2019. Me and Cherry lost him doing 55 mph at the next sharp bend. Cherry casually pulled the door shut and panted rhythmically as she stared out of the window… Postie Prim, Postie Prim, Postie Prim and his black and white dog… – Two in one weekend, now that’s not normal.
Booze mistress, we need booze.
Monday defied the odds with daughter No.1’s 18th birthday. Not a normal coming of age; vodka shots with Prosecco Ping-Pong… made Thailand look tame. Sounds all wrong No.71.
Tuesday came with gout, big attack, which left claw marks down walls and unable to fit into my flip-flops. Normal hanging on the washing line carried a semaphore reading ‘please don’t take my normal away’ – sang to the tune, ‘You are my sunshine’.
All this hankering on and pondering of the normal has got me craving fish-shaped crisps…. and there my friends we interlude and I’m not talking a J. Cole track
Interlude-ed – A working Wednesday with a foot the size of an elephant, saw depressing the clutch in the Postie van a series of high intense sweat dripping torture. Damn you Colchicine and your Thai made brother Tolchicine, I need Fariik the Magician from Arabian Knights, size of a pea
Given our accustomed tone this week has fleeted through a platitudinous of levelled banality we have had two murders to keep us sane, and it’s only Thursday. And not a hint of Durban’s Bread yet!
It’s Friday and I’m done… till next week folks
Till next time… keep ‘em peeled
Pip pip, ding-dong and ticketyboo
Keep the world turning, keep it wheel
It’s Time – But It’s Gonna Be… is brought to us by Durban’s Bread
Also with our good chums Chow Pet Foods
More It’s Time…