While I think of something proper to write about this month, I've posted one of the little, half-finished, fictional things I toss out when there is nothing of worth for me to do. This one is from the memoirs of a pensioner who confronts his rapidly increasing seniority with what you might call gusto.
The advent of old age, I found, was rather like puberty. I woke up one morning and realised my body was in the midst of changes it had been undergoing for years, but which I had failed to notice as they happened. It was just as confusing and distressing as puberty and I found all over again that it was all very embarrassing. Suddenly my body was capable of secreting fluids I was unaware it even produced. Mood swings once again integrated themselves into the fabric of everyday life and, most notably, hair started to sprout from the most unlikely of nooks and surprising of crannies. On second thought, what was most notable was that I began pissing myself at least twice a week.
Loss of bladder control in the old runs parallel to masturbation in the young. One day you discover that your genitals are capable of something extraordinary, and from that point on the frequency with which they exercise their new-found ability increases exponentially. The difference is that one is the process by which we create life from nothing, while the other is the biological mechanism which shifts bodily waste from one place to another.
Normally from my bladder to my trousers.
* * *
For those of you in Crieff, I shall be staging my triumphant return in about a week. I shall be sorely disappointed if a monument is not erected to honour the occasion. A carpet of palm leaves would be appreciated, but is not strictly necessary.
Jamie.
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