Senile at Forty

Away with the fairies, that’s me, away with the fucking fairies. One minute its there the next its gone and I’m getting fucking worse.

‘I’ve no touched your fucking tape measure, what the fuck would I want with a tape measure?’

That’s the wife, usual answer, a well rehearsed fucking stock answer, honed to perfection over the years. Something she started a long time ago, deny fucking everything and think later.

Every time I ask where something is, she denies all knowledge about its whereabouts.

I don’t fucking tidy the house, who’s the one that leaves every thing at their arse, me that’s who! Well that’s what Mother fucking Teresa’s always tells me.

Honestly, she thinks I’m off my head, or as she so eloquently puts it, I’m a ‘demented auld bastard’.

Forty, I’m only bloody forty and I’m going senile! Fuck me! What will I be like if I reach seventy? The weans will want nothing to do with a gibbering old pervert. They will stick me in a home as far away from them as possible.

Incontinent, talking utter shite, and, trying my best to look down nurse’s blouses. Scary, stuff indeed. I’ll make Homer’s dad seem sane.

I cannot say I noticed any thing different, its just that, well, things started to dissapear. They fucking do! Surely, I’m not that daft.

She said its because I rush too much. Fucking rush, the demented whore has a list as long as her fucking arm. ‘Wee jobs’ she calls them, wee fucking jobs, my arse.

Tile the kitchen, five minutes.

Hang a shelf, one minute.

Lay a new floor in the kids bedroom, she might allow eight minutes for that.

Cut the grass, two minutes. I still don’t see anything wrong with green concrete.

Every fucking day the list gets fucking longer and more elaborate.

I fucking loath, those programmes where the bastards do some imbeciles house up. Forty fucking minute make over, or something like that. What this daft cow forgets is, its s fucking telly program, there will be fucking forty of the bastards doing the work.

What chance do I, humble me, have in such a competition?

All I’ve got, is a cheep fucking electric drill bought in a fucking Tesco’s sale.

Too much of a rush! I’ll give the bitch too much of a rush. There isn’t enough hours in a day for what she wants.

Besides, I fancy a pint, and I’m going to do just that.

Mrs!

‘Where is my fucking wallet?’

I had the fucking thing no more than five minutes ago.