Chicken dinner

I’m lying on the sofa with Brian and Mel. Tristan and I just cooked a half arsed roast chicken with some of the trimmings. We are talking about Santa Claus. It’s times like these that I take stock. Things are pretty damn good in my life.

Some of my friends clubbed together to get me boots that won’t eat my feet. The internet boots that I was trying to persuade myself were okay, they were super sweaty. I was worried sick about them over 600 miles. Now I’ve been bought boots that you can’t fuck with. Tomorrow I’ll try and strike out somewhere in them for a tester. But I reckon they won’t sweatily erode my toes. Even on a short wear, I’m sold. I’m just going to have to get very good at laundry on the road as I’m deliberately only bringing three pairs of socks

How do I write 500 words about today? I’ve done very little of consequence. This week, I’ve deliberately kept out of all of my dayjobs. I’ve earmarked the time for preparation. I got those boots thanks to my ridiculously generous friends. And also a fleecy top and a walking pole. And I went on Amazon and bought some nappy pins, a clothes line and a sink stopper. But you can get endlessly sucked in by the internet about stuff you need. For me, the key is to bring as little as I can get away with. If the internet is to be believed, everyone will steal all my things immediately, I’ll be drained of all my fluid by bed bugs, snoring people will destroy all my sleep and the path will deliberately break my ankle when I’m trying to evade the blister monster. Bollocks. It’s Daily Mail style sensationalism. I hope and trust.

Honestly. It’s not that far, surely? All this concern about distance and bedbugs and all that… It smells of nothing. I’m walking a bit. That’s all. Walking. Literally the least I could do. I might end up eating my words here, but I get the sense that the majority of people worrying about this shit are basically just batteries with legs.

I use my body as a matter of course. It’s my job. My body is still weird and a bit broken but I understand it. The people who are worried about all these little tiny bullshit details of movement… It’s maybe because they’ve been slotted into their socket for so long they’ve just become habitual batteries powering someone else’s bank. Unmoving passive little lumps generating power until they’re spent.

I’ll try and make sure I’m never walking for reasons I don’t get. It’s the very least I can do. I’ll walk knowingly and I really hope I don’t validate all the internet horror I’ve been reading, about blisters that want to eat your children and potholes that have deliberately dug themselves in order to trap unwary hikers and break their shitty pilgrim ankles.

Meantime tonight it’s lovely to lie here while people I care about dream all sorts of bonkers stuff and make it into reality. This is what keeps me alive in this city. These people, and their ilk. “Look like you did something filthy and you’re not sure how you feel about it.”

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Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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