Woolf-esque (could be considered a tad penis-heavy).

Ok, so this is basically an exercise in stream of consciousness narrative, which is basically like an inner monolgue. Virginia Woolf was pretty much the don of this, before she drowned herself in a river that is...

Wheelies

The filament sparks to life above my bed, I turn my head to cut out the glare. I hear the curtains being thrown back as I stare at the wall. It’s the same every day, an 8 o’clock start, even on weekends. Even on days when the rain is throwing pebbles against the window and the leaden light barely bothers to show itself at all. Days that, in my previous life, I would have pressed the snooze on and burrowed down for an extra half hour. Not anymore.

‘Morning Jack,’ they say as they throw back my duvet. I feel my carefully cultivated warm air dissipate, I get cold so easily nowadays. I see them stood at the side of my bed, hopefully a woman but sometimes a man. I have my favourites, I tend to like the older ones, the ones with the soft hands and maternal touch. The younger girls make me nervous, they aren’t quite so confident and I harbour suspicions that they gossip secretly about my package or wrinkle their noses at my nightly bowel movements. I sometimes think I catch them indulging in a side-long glance at each other, ‘He’s gone again’ they imply, or ‘it’s not much use to anyone now is it? I wonder if it works at all’.

Before I got really bad I used to get embarrassed in front of someone like this, as naked and helpless as a baby, lying prone in all my dilapidated glory. I used to wince when they put their hands near my manhood. Something which I used to wield as a divining rod in my 20s, which I used to jokingly refer to as ‘the Devastater’, now reduced to just another meaty piece to clean around. Now I barely care at, I sometimes wonder why they bother dressing me at all.

We go through the routine. Pyjamas off, Depend off, hoist sling on, into the bath (which is always a little on the cold side, but hey, who’s judging), hair wash, shave (I was previously trying to grow a moustache but that appears to have fallen by the way-side), onto bed, dry and dress (they always manage to put together my nice clothes in such a way it makes me look like a twat, and my socks never match).

Breakfast is usually chosen, although not be me, from a riveting selection of sloppy Weetabix, mashed banana or flavoured porridge. Sometimes I think that I could never look at a Weetabix ever again, and to top it off, they never sprinkle enough sugar on. I’m surprised they don’t notice the wide-eyed, pleading expression on my face as they spoon it into my mouth. I eat it, of course, against my better taste it’s easy to swallow and digest, and it really is easier to just comply. They dab at my face like a toddler before feeding me my thickened coffee through a straw. After breakfast comes meds, and after that it’s ‘activity time’, an expression so ludicrously pre-school that it used to really grate me.

It usually involves them driving me somewhere and then wheeling me around for an hour or so. Laying out my ineptitude for all the public to see, a big flashing sign over my head, ‘Look!’ it says ‘this man can’t walk anymore’, or ‘Attention! I changed this man’s nappy this morning’, or the old favourite ‘He may look young, but he hasn’t had an erection for years!’. I am strapped, buckled and zipped in, paraded at their every whim.

 

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