Day in the Life

Ring, ring

Well, not the classic ringing of a telephone that really qualifies as ringing, it was more of a slightly annoying jingling. Stretching wearily, he twisted round and found that the telephone was out of reach. What use is a cordless phone when it's perpetually, well, far?

"Hello?"

(Middle-aged Chinese woman voice, the kind that tries to sound "educated") "Yes hellooooo."

"Err, yes?"

"Yes, hellloooo, someone called me?"

"No, not really."

"Yes, someone called me."

"I can assure you, you are mistaken."

"Noooooo, someone called my handphone, I have the number now 62429342."

"Well, this isn't that number, it's 624-"

And the bitch hung up. He stared down at the plastic appliance in his palm, wondering how people get like that. If her number wasn't hidden, he'd call her back, tell her what he was actually thinking while negotiating with someone who was, in all likelyhood, a delusional fake-accented spinster. The kind whose fingers seem to have been dipped in jade.

"Hellooooo, is this the woman who called me earlier?"

"Yes?"

"Fuck off."

That's what he felt like doing, but nein. So he continued flipping through the channels, trying to figure out if the sexual impotency of snails was more interesting than reruns of Falcon Beach or Sienfeld, which he's always hated anyway. He settled on the snails, out of morbid curiosity more than anything else. Really. Apparently prozac leads to hermaphrodite snails switching to their less feminine side, but the enlargement of their genitalia leads to the snail equivalent of a vasectomy.

Later in the day, he was dealing with a kind who he's been paid to tutor. The kid's nice enough, and going to his home brings back fond memories of times where school bags were laquered to the ground and brooms were used as makeshift javelins during class.

Only problem he faced was a rather delicate one; how do you tutor a ten-year-old when he struggles to comprehend the meaning of fence. And not even the sport. He takes a week to understand the fundamental difference between freezing and evaporation, even after sticking his head in the fridge to show him that yes, ice is cold.

Getting paid is always a nice feeling, though, and he leaves the place with a sense of acheivement and money in his wallet. The kind that folds, not clinks. He boards the bus, noting the crowd, as usual, includes a bunch of belligerent teenagers dealing with puberty the only way they know how; talking loudly about sexual acts that they can hardly spell, yet alone fathom. The bus would not be complete, of course, without a few elderly folk. Elderly folk who believe that their groceries are more deserving of a seat than a pregnant lady. In their defense, she's just gone out shopping anyway, so screw chivalry, he thinks.

Smelly guy takes the seat next to his. He just has to. The combination of body odour and alcohol gives rise to a particularly pungent trip home, and as usual Smelly Guy is also yapping away on his stone-age Motorola, which looks like it could anchor a battleship.

Getting home, he's in a rush. Has to dress up for a party of sorts. It's a "surprise" birthday party, in that, well, I'm not sure. It turned out well enough. Italian food and candles, wine and Aldo bags being exchanged in between over-excited tittering and the ripping of wrapping paper (newspaper).

Off to The Balcony, it's his first time there. He spots the jacuzzi, and the girls settle down to plan future bashes while the guys sit back to talk about weird naked people in the army. He passes when offered a drink, alcohol has never been his thing, consumed or inhaled.

Finally, back home. For good. Well, he isn't alone, so he's got to walk her home later. Didn't even need one of those cheesy pick-up lines. Something like "Baby, you're like a dictionary, you add meaning to my life." But of course, he's never needed one. No, he isn't some dashingly handsome heart-throb, but he's been with the girl for close to six years now, and not a day goes by where his heart doesn't pound against his chest, thinking of what in the hell to get her as an anniversary present.

He walks her home after some quiet time, especially quiet. Then walks home alone in the empty streets of his neighbourhood. No-one's awake at 2AM there anyway when there isn't a big 7-1 drubbing to catch of ESPN. So he walks home alone, the stray cats keeping him company with their strangled mewling as he realises the next day's already begun.