Monday, July 25, 2016

I'm in!

When you lived caked in pain you get used to deflecting questions about how you are travelling.

For years I've used a cheery "I'm in!" if anyone says good morning and then asks how I am. The unusual blend of a happily implied illness enough to deflect a follow up.

An ex boss of mine saw me one morning, asked how I was, and I gave my usual reply.

"Yeah," he said, "but you didn't actually tell me how you are."

I was blown away. He was the first person who had never been deflected. I replied to that effect, that he was the first person to have ever done it, and he walked away all chuffed.

But I still didn't have to tell him how shit I felt—because I feel shit every waking second. It's the degrees of shit that is the issue in play, not its presence.

Yes, Mikey is the concealer ... the concealer of pain!

(throws down ninja smoke bomb, coughs, smoke wafts away to reveal I'm still there as I couldn't bother moving).

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