What a rousing and invigorating act of mutiny and defiance.
Socking it to the man, man!
Must have been good for my carbon footprint too.
All this, the revolution that came from a moment of forgetting …
Who knew what ecstasy of rebellion and non-conformity could come from putting on the wrong socks?
And then brazenly defying orders from head office to put on the right ones.
Like I normally would and have done a hundred thousand times or more.
But now, it was like the first time you said ‘No!’ To Mammy or Daddy.
And ‘Yes!’ to individuality and obstinacy.
All showered and ready to seize this latest day, Mr Meticulous Me had fetched his usual fresh T, jocks and socks.
Beside me on the bed as I sat down for stage one.
Some men go for underpants first … I do myself, usually, but something was afoot this morning as I went for the socks …
Christmas novelty ones … rashers, puddings, sausage and eggs and the legend “FULL” on the left and ‘IRISH’ on the right heel pad.
Nobly perched at the end of the bed, my mind drifted off with that swooping seagull as I glazed out the window on a brightening April morning.
As I was donning the socks, my neurotransmitters began to flash out low-level warning signals … barely thoughts, more intuitions … there was something odd about said hosiery items. They looked familiar — they were my own socks after all — but something wasn’t quite right.
And then like with the dog who stayed up all night, it dawned on me … no rasher, no sausage, no egg … duh, these were yesterday’s socks.
The ones I had just picked up, to presently bring along with yesterday’s sundry undie discards to the laundry basket — and now I was putting them on.
I just smiled and shook my head at my latest faux pas, and I was going to take them off, and put on the FULL IRISH, when I stood up from the bed, tall and true, and clenching my jaw — or rather firming my jowls — with plucky conviction I declared: ‘No mas’
No more, I’m not taking this bloody dull routine anymore … I shall defy time, age and personal hygiene.
Or something like that …
I will leave them on! I said … yes indeed with an exclamation mark.
I felt like Mr Pusskins, easily my favourite character in my favourite night-time story book for the kids when they were small.
It’s the story of a grumpy family cat who didn’t know he was born … adored by his little girl owner and generally cosseted like royalty, the ungrateful so and so was bored out of his prissy whiskers with what he called ‘this dull life’ and craved an escape from the tedium of this relentless pampering and lack of excitement.
He goes out into the real world, gets a few scares and and knock-backs and is ultimately beyond delighted when the family car drives up to rescue him from his misery, and he goes back to a life that was not so dull after all.
But now I was up and at it, spoiling for a fight with no-one in particular, just a desire to stand up and be counted.
No longer one of the silent conformers, going about their normal lives, at a normal pace, with normal expectations of normal … everything.
And what shape would this revolution take now?
I was in the kitchen, and nothing would please me as I considered my breakfast options.
Eventually, this Che Guevara would have to make do with Special K.
In my vigour and agitation, I went to open the container bag inside the new box … And if I did, I pulled too hard on either side, and the centre suddenly gave way and the bag flew open and there were cereal kernels all over the worktop and a few on the floor, which Lily, always on morsel alert, dived on.
What next, I pondered, after I had cleared up the mess — yes, i stuffed most of them back into the packet …
Revolutionaries don’t want to be wasting their precious resources.
What next, I asked myself now … caution to the wind, and to heck with blood pressure medication … I’ll have two rashers with my egg … those lovely thick-cut ones from Dunne’s Finest.
Fried or grilled … what do you think?
I was too far gone now.
Then, after taking the pan from the hob, I went to wipe a few crumbs off the burner cap …. and scalded my fingers.
Mr Senior Moment man had forgotten it was still hot after the extra rasher escapade.
And like so many revolutions, it all kind of petered out after that … like it’s hard to imagine Spartacus, or Emiliano Zapata, or any of the great heroes and agitators being so thick as to scald their pinkie on the hob … and then expect the rebel firebrands to rush in behind them …
Instead of the extra rasher, I should just have put on the Full Irish.
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