I was in my bedroom getting dressed in a hurry as I had an audition to get to (I am such an actor now) when I looked down and was surprised to see that my left foot was covered in blood. This is an unusual thing to see when you are not expecting it. I was momentarily confused as to why this would be. Then I realised how this must have happened, but the realisation didnÂ’t make up for the unsettling horror movie moment of seeing stuff that is meant to be inside you, outside you.
About fifteen minutes earlier I had been up in my office printing up the script for the audition. I don’t go into my office much, preferring to work outside of my house if at all possible and as I entered I saw my old wireless internet box thing lying on the floor by the desk. I got upgraded to a new whatever they are called a few months ago, but when I unplugged the old one I just left it on the floor. I thought to myself, “I should really look into recycling that or giving it to someone else who might like it or something.” But I knew I would probably just leave it on the floor for a few more months instead.
Fate, my enemy, which I refuse to acknowledge the existence of, (which is partly why it doesnÂ’t like me), decided to punish my lackadaisical attitude.
I walked to the desk to attach my laptop to my printer, but had instantaneously forgotten about the wireless router (is that what itÂ’s called?) and caught my little toe against it. This is the same little toe that I caught against the skirting board
when I was in Zanzibar (though only alluded to in that entry) and which to be honest has never quite recovered from the incident, occasionally aching and grumbling about my unappreciative treatment of it. But I donÂ’t listen to it. I think I could do without my little toe. All it seems to do is get caught on things and cause me pain. So anyway, I assumed the pain I felt was just a common or garden stub, exacerbating the previous injury and being 39 years old I didnÂ’t cry or make a fuss. I just ignored the pain and got on with things.
A quarter of an hour later I looked at my foot and saw the blood and saw that it was still bleeding and was surprised. It was hard to work out what had happened, but when I washed some of the blood away I saw that there was a significant slice in the top of the rubbish redundant little toe.
I didnÂ’t have time to think about it. I had a part that I was unsuitable for to audition for and fail to get. I put on my socks and trainers, not caring that the wound was still open and bleeding and hobbled off on my way.
Only later when I got home did I go to check out the office. On my way up I went over a large piece of crusty blood on my stairs and then in the office itself was a small pool of dried blood and sure enough specks of blood on the sharp edge of the wireless thingummyÂ’s little leg. The amount of blood was quite alarming and I thought I should probably try and clean it up before my cleaner arrives on Thursday. SheÂ’s quite new and has already had to cope with the aftermath of the whole vinegar incident. What would she think if she saw blood on the stairs and then came up to the office and saw a small yet significant pool of dried blood under the desk? It was the kind of amount of blood that might be left if I had stabbed Tom Thumb or someone of similar stature (I can only think of Inch High Private Eye, and
Jeffrey Hudson (who is a bit too tall)). So she would probably have to conclude that I had murdered a person of small stature or possibly a mouse, or seriously injured a rat or hedgehog, or slightly scarred a dog or cow. I think those would be the first thoughts on her mind. I donÂ’t think sheÂ’d think that I had cut my toe on a wireless router, not realised what had happened and walked off spreading my blood as I went. On its own it might not be a concern, but after
the whole poorly cleaned up vinegar incident I think she would suspect something was awry. That maybe some domestic violence was going on. Even though she knows I live on my own. But I might have a secret midget hidden away somewhere.
But the blood was a bit gross and my cleaning equipment was downstairs, so I left it for the moment. After all what's the point in having a cleaner if you do all the cleaning yourself. And knowing my cleaning skills I would only succeed in partially cleaning up the mess, which would just look more suspicious.
IÂ’m out all day tomorrow so will have to try and remember to clean it up after my gig. When I will probably be drunk. My cleaner is going to think I am mad.
And I am not mad.
I donÂ’t think I have to tell you that.
It made me think that my feet do get a hard time of things, being stubbed on skirting boards on other continents and getting vinegary vinegar bottle in them and being cut up by defunct computer equipment. They do so many good things for me, like help me walk around and provide a place to display my trendy trainers and stop me falling over about 95% of the time and I do very little to repay them. They are the crane drivers of the human body. Amazing, but easy to take for granted. Though I stand by my earlier comments about the little toe, which is useless and runtish and causes me nothing but inconvenience.
The first gig of the London run went pretty well, especially given I was a little rusty after only one gig in the last month and a half. Around about 100 people showed up, which is amazing for a first night and they were a good and appreciative, if slightly shockable crowd. There were a few points where I heard a significant proportion of them giving a sharp intake of breath. ItÂ’s an interesting sound. Anyway, I had fun and am very surprised by how many people showed up. Tomorrow nightÂ’s figures are already over 100 as well, and if word of mouth spreads there is a slight possibility that it might start to sell out. It is slightly disconcerting after all these years of mediocrity to have the feeling that things are finally picking up. ItÂ’s strange that that is an unsettling prospect.
I am sure that fate has some unexpected twist in store for me that will bring all this crashing to the ground. But I don't care cos I don't believe in fate. I am just goading fate now. Come of fate what you going to do? Perhaps as I semi-predicted last week, this router cut will become infected, due to my total disregard for cleaning or bandaging it and I will die a slow and painful death. But at least if that is the case I can wryly observe on my death-bed that "My feet are killing me." And everyone will think I am the new Oscar Wilde. As long as one of the assembled mourners doesn't say, "Well strictly speaking it's just your foot that is killing you. Just your left foot. So your final bon mot does not in fact work and alas it is the failure of your joke that your entire comedic career will be judged upon."
Someone else might say, "Oh don't be pedantic. It's a good joke, given the circumstances. And quite sharp for a dying man."
But the original person will say, "He hasn't just made it up though. He had the whole thing prepared weeks ago. I read it in Warming Up. What kind of man prepares his final words like that and then tries to pass them off as an ad lib? Especially given the joke is flawed."
Then I will die, with familiar failure ringing in my ears.
