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Thursday, July 4, 2019

My Body is a Temple

Thirteen months ago, I gave up alcohol. 

At the same time, I decided to give up drugs. 

Not hard drugs (which I’d be too chicken to ever take in case I started gnawing people’s faces off or drinking so much water my brain exploded), but any medication that might interfere with my brainwaves. 

You know, that superior intellectual brain of mine which I must protect at all costs. God forbid I should poison it with an aspirin. 

No painkillers, sleeping tablets, or even extra strong peppermints in thirteen months… nothing drug-related entered the Pink Temple.

My squeaky-clean body has adapted to this puritanical way of life with such enthusiasm that now I find myself feeling ‘drunk’ on a cup of coffee.

Scotto and I went to meet number three son for lunch recently before he took off to Europe on a Contiki trip. 

Arriving early, we decided to have a look around the shops after a quick (large and strong) coffee.

Fatal mistake. Five minutes after, my heart began to race, my eyes to twitch and I was jabbering faster than Alvin the Chipmunk. 

I felt an overpowering urge to run around with hands in the air screaming, or to chuck off my boots and slide along the tiles like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, or to pick Scotto up and carry him around on my shoulders shouting, “I’m here everybody! Come and get me!”.

I felt exuberant, euphoric.

The first thing I crashed into was one of those dodgy temporary booths selling imported items that look as if they fell off a truck on its way to the dump.

“A fairy booth!” I shrieked at Scotto. “Look Scotto! Little spotted toadstools. Little rabbits. Little chickens. Little cups and saucers. Little tables and chairs. Oh my God, Scotto! Look at the miniature rocks covered in moss! I want! I want!”

Grabbing a plastic tray, I careened around the booth sweeping miniature lampposts and trees into the tray, gushing like a nine-year-old at a unicorn themed birthday party. “I’ll have that! And that! And three of those! And, oh my God! One of those!” It’s embarrassing to look back on.

I swear the lady behind the counter thought I was as pissed as a parrot and this was her chance to make the rent money for the day. 

I couldn’t stop. If it was pink and sparkly, it was in the tray.

Afterwards, on the way home in the car, I slumped low in the seat holding my aching head wondering what I was going to do with all these child oriented little objects. 

They sat malevolently glowering at me on the kitchen counter for a few weeks, mocking me for my heady folly every time I wandered past.

“How old are you again, Pinky?” they’d taunt.

Eventually, after Scotto kept reminding me the bags were taking up valuable kitchen space, I moved them into my study.

A couple of weeks after that, Scotto set them up in little fishbowls for me. 

To what purpose I’m still trying to figure out.

Unless the Contiki trip produces a grandchild, I suppose.