Hot Fun

And a restaurant review

I don’t leave my street very often. Heaven knows why I ever make exceptions either. We simply do not know what could happen dear reader. I breathe. I count to ten. I cry out “serenity now!” But nothing makes it any better.

So this week I found myself on the trains. I had heard the railways had thrown in the towel on the Beenleigh line - a lost cause. So they’re ripping it up. There’s a Chinese oligarch who needs the tracks for his scale train set. I was irritated at first but at least it’s going to a good cause. So I thought I’d better get out there and enjoy our suburban train tracks before they all go.

You also must know by now how I try so hard to not see the omens. Even when bread knife blades are bouncing off my forehead I try not to take offence, and I try to see it as a coincidence and not that my fairy god mother is raising the topic in her sweetest tone possible that I might think to check my messages - VERY SOON!

If it had only happened once that would be something but it happened twice. Just as well as it was only twice too. Twice this week, from the train, black plumes of smoke rising out of the neighbourhood. If I see a third, dear reader, you won’t hear from me for a while. But it wasn’t my house this time. My special operation with the inflammables was put to rest some time ago and we shall not speak of that failed business - Meltin Stuff P/L.

A klutz he was. Some older dude, stumbling through the carriage with an oversized placard, so large he couldn’t help bumping into passengers along his way. At the end of the carriage he turned around and the placard read “Jesus Loves You”. Then he walked all the way back through the carriage, as if smacking passengers with his message; divine punishment for trying to ignore him. I usually wouldn’t read signs on a Tuesday but for head smacking signs I make an exception.

Near the station there’s a takeaway restaurant - it can only be a front for something; I don’t know what. But this is my review of that establishment:

They do their utmost to keep their “front” theme throughout the dining experience. When you show up and sit down they seem genuinely unsure of what you’re doing there. One tip - make sure you get a seat against the wall. You will thank me if things turn bad. Don’t sit too close to the door for the coming and going of ‘runners’. But they’ve done everything they can to make this place look like a front, from the harsh lighting to the edibility of the food, although a burly bloke on the door would be a nice touch. And the menu font is too small, but I ordered the Chicken Hor Fun. I was in that kind of mood. Thought it said Chicken Hot Fun. “Hot Fun!” I cried, “I want Hot Fun with Chicken”. Unexpectedly I found it a touch bland.

Photo by Zhen Yao on Unsplash

I took the day off work the other day. Don’t tell anyone I work. People can form the wrong expectations so quickly. But I called in, there’s something wrong with my eyes, I said, yeah I just can’t see myself coming in today.

It’s been becoming a problem. When I use the tape gun I lose feeling in my fingertips. So the doc takes one look and tells me I need to get my eyes checked… says there’s clear tape all over my fingers.

But I don’t want to go. I know what the eye doctor will say. It’s the same every time and I don’t need to hear it. As long as my dear readers will put up with my smelling mistakes why bother? He’s going to say you’re old and there’s nothing I can do. But he’s wrong. I can do something: I can ignore him. I can defy him - prove him wrong with my experience and cunning. I shall grow to enjoy headaches. I shall ask waitresses to read my menu for me. Young at heart, but just a little aged of the eye.

Even though we came off the rails a bit the message of this essay is clear. I will stay completely calm dear reader and not ever, not even once, accept aging for one second - no, not without a scratching, a biting, screaming and kicking - a fight to the death.