Funny? Hilarious. A barrel of laughs.
I refer to my bouts of darkest despair? No, those are laughable enough, I suppose. But should one laugh at such a predictable and constant life companion? Always there in the wings, ready to take over every wave produced by the brain I call home. hail to thee, hail to thee.
In fact, there’s not a single laugh in the story of what happened at my neighbor’s place last week- the shouting, the knife waving and so on. No knife wounds to report and the assailant wasn’t an old drinking buddy. The assailant was the old man’s son. The old man was at my door yesterday afternoon with another neighbor, wanting to know if I had a photocopier. I do, but the shops around here don’t carry the right ink cartridges for it.
Not to worry. I went to the Volubilo offices and made two copies of the man’s driving permit. How this relates to the bruises on his body: the son got angry because the father was angry that the son had borrowed the car and driven it without a permit. Now the father’s stuck with a police action concerning his vehicle, plus the sundry more recent traumas in the family relationship. I haven’t had the honor of an introduction to the son yet. Don’t mind putting it off for a good while.
Black dog – as in depression? Yes, of course. Stands to reason. But also black dog in story, plus a long-gone black Lab I called Pogo. (We have found the enemy, and the enemy is us? Pogo – the comic strip. Part of my growing up experience.)
Sunday? Yes. Market? Yes. Life in all its fascinating facets? Wouldn’t mind a few of the more pleasant ones. You know, the light-hearted side of life?