There's a badger in the sink
After a nice European hiatus and then eight days when I felt like I had been ripped apart by some sort of James Cameron-styled Alien, I have emerged from the toilet a pale shadow of myself. So much for 2020 bringing hindsight. It certainly wasn't sight coming out of my hind.
My family, no doubt disconcerted by the ongoing groans and moans from the bathroom, greeted me as one might greet a long lost sock.
"Oh there you are. Can you make me some dinner?" said Ottawacker Jr.
Mrs Ottawacker was less circumspect. "Why have you got a badger's arse hanging out of your mouth?" she asked. With that I was dispatched back to the bathroom to remove the badger.
Aging - it's crap. When I was 18, I couldn't have grown a beard to save my life. Now I wait a week to shave and I look like Brian Blessed. It's the weird multi-shaded-thing I hate most about it. Mrs Ottawacker's "badger" was a good call - the beard had white stripes in it, almost like Cruella de Vil. No wonder the cats have been running from me when they see me.
But now I am back. Clean-shaven, fresh-faced, relatively un-diarrhoea-y, no puke on my my shirt or in my hair, a touch gaunt, like, but alive.
And so, it is time to write.